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^Jn fllvstrated Jffonthlij 



Vol. X. 


Xonfcon . 







[See page 365.) 

From the French of F. Soulie, By Alys Hallard. 

F all the hardened, obstinate 
unbelievers as regarded any- 
thing approaching supernatural 
visitations, our uncle Bayle was 
surely the climax. He would 
not even admit that there 
might be the faintest truth in any of the 
theories of spiritualists. It was of no use 
arguing with him, for he always finished up 
with what he no doubt considered as final :— 

" I tell you there are no such things as 
spirits ; I don't believe in them, and never 

"But, uncle," I persisted, for I had been 
reading some wonderful psychological litera- 
ture, "you do not believe in them, because 
you have never happened to have any ex- 
perience of the kind " 

" Oh ! haven't I, though ? T expect an 
experience I once had would have been 
enough to convince you a hundred times 
over, and your hair would have stood on end 
for the rest of your life." 

" Oh, do tell us about it ! " I exclaimed, 
eager to have some fresh proof to add to 
those I had already collected. 

" Well," began my uncle, leisurely, and 
looking very solemn all at once, " it was about 
forty years ago that this happened, so that I 
should be about twenty then. It was in the 

Ve!- x.-4S 

autumn, and just getting dusk, and I was 
on my way home from Toulouse. I was 
pretty tired, for I had been riding nearly all 
day, and when I reached Auterrive, some 
friends I knew there wanted me to break 
my journey and put up at their house for the 
night. I did not accept their invitation, as 
I wanted to get as far as Saverdun. 

" Well, I went on through the Secourien 
Woods, and had come out just near the 
Bolbourne Monastery, when a terrible 
thunderstorm commenced. It was one of 
those fearful storms which come on so 
suddenly without any warning whatever in 
the neighbourhood of our mountains. I 
should most certainly have asked for shelter 
at the monastery until it was over, but that 
my horse, taking fright at the vivid flashes 
of lightning, suddenly set off at full gallop 
down a narrow pathway to the left, and in 
spite of all my efforts I could not stop 

"As we went tearing along I discovered 
that he was taking me in the direction of the 
little village of Sainte-Gabelle. On, on we 
flew, until at length, as the storm began to 
abate, my horse slackened his pace, and 
when we came to the little inn I was able to 
draw him up, for I wanted to dismount and 
have some refreshment, 



"On entering the inn-parlour I found it 
was full of travellers who, like myself, had 
been surprised by the storm. There were 
some Spaniards, some merchants, and a fair 
number of sportsmen, and before we had 
finished drying ourselves at the crackling 
wood-fire, supper was announced. We all sat 
down together at a long table, and the con- 
versation naturally fell on the fearful storm 
we had just had. One man had been thrown 
from his horse ; another had been an hour 
getting his cart-wheels out of a regular bog ; 
everyone had some adventure to relate, and 
we all abused the weather heartily. 

" ' It's beastly,' exclaimed one. 

"'Yes; and with such wind, too,' said 
another ; 'it's regular witches' weather.' 

" There was nothing much in such an ex- 
pression, but it gave rise to a strange remark 
from another man, delivered in a still stranger 
and more peculiar tone. 

" ' Witches, and indeed all kinds of super- 
natural visitors, prefer a peaceful moonlight 
night to such boisterous weather as this.' 

" We all looked in astonishment at the man 
who spoke. He was a Spaniard, a regular 
gipsy-like-looking fellow, strong and swarthy, 
with black hair and eyes, gold rings in his 

expression, burst out laughing, and ex- 
claimed : — 

" ' Well, that's good ! Do you mean to say, 
though, that they have told you about their 
habits and tastes — and is it really a fact that 
they object to getting wet and muddy— — ? ' 

" He had not quite finished speaking 
when the Spaniard turned on him fiercely, 
saying : — 

" ' Young man, I advise you not to speak 
so lightly about things of which you know 

" ' Do you mean to say that you want me to 
believe in spirits and ' 

" ' I might, if I thought that you had enough 
courage to even look at them, supposing they 
should appear to you ' 

" The young man sprang from his chair, 
furious and crimson with indignation, then 
suddenly mastering his anger he said, sar- 
castically : — 

" ' You would have paid for insulting me 
in that way, if it had not all been fools' 

" 'Fools'nonsense I'exclaimed the Spaniard, 
jumping up and striking the table with his 
clenched fist. ' Look here,' and he threw a 
thick leathern money-bag on to the table, 


ears, and he was dressed in a rough suit, 
laathern gaiters, and a red cloak. He had 
spoken with such conviction that everyone 
was taken aback, and there was silence for a 
minute, until a young man who was sitting 
next me ; and who had a very frank, honest 

' there are thirty quadruples there, and I will 
risk losing them if, within an hour from now, 
I do not let you see the face of any of your 
friends, even if they have been dead ten 
years ; and if, after recognising them, you 
dare touch them or let them touch you— 



why, the money's yours.' The Spaniard 
looked so terrible as he uttered these words 
that, in spite of ourselves, we all felt awed. 
The young man, however, still kept up his 
mocking air as he answered : — 

" ' Ah ! you think you could do that, do 
you ? ' 

" ' Yes, I do,' said the Spaniard, ' and I 
will bet this bag of money on it, but you 
must bet the same amount, and if I do as I 
say I shall win it.' 

" The young man was silent for a moment, 
and then he said, still in the same mocking 
tone : — 

"'Thirty quadruples is a big sum for a 
poor devil of a student to possess. I haven't 
the amount, but if you like to bet five, why, 
here's my money.' 

" The Spaniard picked his leathern bag up 
and put it silently back in his pocket. 

" ' So you want to back out, do you ? ' he 
said, scornfully. 

" ' Back out — no, indeed, I don't. If I 
owned the thirty quadruples you'd soon see 
whether I wouldn't risk them.' 

" ' Well, I'll find you four,' I said, curious 
to see how the affair would end, and several 
other men feeling the same curiosity offered 
to make up the amount. 

" The Spaniard, looking as though he felt 
no doubt as to the result of the extraordinary 
wager, handed over his money to the young 

" The next thing was to proceed with the 
experiment. The landlord of the inn sug- 
gested that it should take place in a summer- 
house at the end of the garden, where there 
would be no risk of our being disturbed. 

" We examined every corner of this out- 
door building carefully, so that there might be 
no trickery. It was just a room with one win- 
dow, which was shut close, and a door. A 
pencil and paper were placed on the table, 
the young man went in alone, and then, 
shutting the door to, we all remained outside. 

" We were all, in spite of any scepticism 
we might feel, very much interested, and 
there was perfect silence as we waited to see 
what was going to happen. Presently the 
Spaniard, who was at the door with us, began 
to chant in a slow, melancholy tone, the 
following words : — 

' With a creaking noise, the coffin bursts its lid. 
The grave is open, too. The spectre cries : 
" The grave is open, the grave is open ! " 
A creaking noise is heard, is heard ; 
The coffin lid is burst asunder : 
A phantom rises from its prison house 
And steps out on the cold, wet grass.' 

" There was dead silence for a minute, and 

then the Spaniard said, in a loud, solemn 
voice, 'You wished to see your friend, 
Francois Vialat, who was drowned three 
years ago ! What do you see now ? ' 

" ' I can see a white, misty light near the 
window,' answered the student ; ' it has no 
form, though, and looks more like a cloud 
than anything else.' 

" We were all stupefied with astonishment. 

" ' Has it alarmed you ? ' asked the 

" ' No, not at all,' replied the student, with- 
out a shade of fear or hesitation in his voice. 

" We were holding our breath with excite- 
ment. The Spaniard then stamped on the 
ground three times, and after another 
minute's silence began to chant again, this 
time more solemnly and slower than before : — 

' The white phantom moves, the white phantom moves, 

And shakes the damp from his hair, 

And shakes the damp from his clinging shroud.' 

" Once more there was silence, and then 
the Spaniard, in a still more solemn voice, 
asked : — 

" ' You, who have thus wished to know 
the mysteries of the tomb, what do you 
see ? ' 

" We all listened anxiously for the student's 
answer. He spoke very deliberately, and it 
was evident that he was describing what was 
just taking place, phase after phase. 

" ' The vapour is rising and getting longer 
and longer — it has now taken the form of a 
phantom — there is a veil over the phantom's 
face— it is standing there quite still, just in 
the place where it rose from the ground.' 

" 'Are you afraid of it ? ' asked the Spaniard, 
in a sarcastic tone. 

" The young man's voice was quite firm as 
he replied, calmly : — 

" ' No,. I am not afraid of it.' 

" We scarcely dared move — all of us — and 
we gazed in breathless amazement at the 
Spaniard. He was now waving his hands 
over his head in the most frantic manner, and 
afterwards he called some strange, weird- 
sounding name three times, and finished 
by chanting, in a much louder voice than 
before : — 

1 The phantom said, as he rose from his grave : 
" I will appear before my friend, 
And he will know me, he will know me ; 
He will recognise his friend." ' 

" There was silence again, and the Spaniard 
asked once more : — 

" ' What do you see now ? ' 

" ' The phantom is moving — coming nearer 
— he has lifted his veil .... It is Francois 
Vialat — nearer and nearer he comes — he is 

3 66 


at the table — he is writing something — he 
has written his name ' 

" ' Are you afraid yet ? ' asked the Spaniard, 
and there was an expression of anger in his 
voice. Another terrible silence, and then the 
student replied, in a voice which this time 
was just as loud but scarcely as firm as 
before : — 

" ' No ; I am not at all afraid.' 

"This time the Spaniard almost yelled as 
he waved his hands about in the air ; and 
then, suddenly dropping his voice, he chanted 
very slowly : — 

' The phantom said to the young man : 

" Come closer, come closer, my friend. 

(jive me your hand, and put your fingers so warm 

Into my cold, clammy ones — 

I want to touch you, my friend, my friend." ' 

" ' What do you see now ? ' stormed the 
Spaniard, in a voice of thunder. 

" ' He is coming closer .... closer .... 
ah ! he is pursuing me .... his arms are 
stretched out .... horror ! . . . . horror ! 
.... he will reach me 
.... open the door ! ' 

"'Are you 
afraid ? ' cried the 
Spaniard, with 
ferocious excite- 
ment, holding the 
handle of the 

"A piercing 
scream was the 
only reply, fol- 
lowed by a fearful 

" ' You'd better 
go to him now,' 
said the Spaniard, 
bitterly sarcastic. 
' It seems to me 
I have won the 
bet ; but let him 
keep the money, 
for I have given 
him a lesson. He 

Help, help ! 

can keep the money, but you'd better advise 
him to be wiser in the future and not to 
mock at subjects so serious.' 

" He strode off abruptly, leaving us all 
stunned, as it were, with astonishment. We 
opened the door of the summer-house, and 
there, unconscious and lying on the floor, we 
found the young student. He soon came to 
himself as we struck a light and lifted him on 
to a bench. 

" On the table was the paper with the name 
' Francois Vialat ' scrawled across it. As soon 
as ever the student began to realize all that 
had happened, he vowed that he would kill 
the wretched man who had made him go 
through such horrible torture. He rushed 
back to the inn in search of him, and on 
being told that the Spaniard had already left, 
he started off at a frantic rate in pursuit of 

"And do you mean to say," I exclaimed, 
my hair all standing on end with horror, so 
tragically had Uncle Bayle related his terrible 
experience — " do you mean to say that, after 
such a proof as that, you can absolutely 
refuse to believe that 
there is anything in what 
the spiritualists tell us ?" 

" Yes, I do ; and for a 
very good reason — neither 
the Spaniard nor the 
young student put in an 
appearance again. And 
we had been fools enough 
to lend the money for the 
bet ! Nicely they must 
have laughed up their 
sleeves at the way we'd 
been taken in with their 
little game. Pretty simple- 
tons we had made of our- 
selves. No, I tell you 
there are no such things 
as spirits. I 
don't believe in 
them, and never 


The Prince and Princess Christian. 

With special permission and approval of T.R.H-. Prince and Princess Christian. 

By Mary Spencer-Warren. 

From a Photo, i 


[Mary Spencer -Warren. 

fine old residence in true 
manor-house style, standing 
in the .Windsor Great Park. 
Everybody knows Windsor 
Castle, and the part of the 
Park which immediately surrounds it, but all 
of us do not get so far out as Cumberland 
Lodge ; for it is a journey of about four 
miles, much of it uphill. The route lies by 
way of the Long Walk, the famous avenue 
with the Georgian equestrian statue at the 
far end, perched on a lofty height. 

Fallow deer and red deer gaze curiously at 
you as you pass along, and the sun gleams 
fitfully through the dense trees, of monster 
size, which stretch far away on your right and 
left. Then you reach the aforesaid statue, turn 
sharp off to the left, and very soon the Lodge 
is seen in the distance. This was formerly 
called the Ranger's Lodge, and. was put up in 
the time of Charles II. Various Rangers of 
celebrity have resided there from time to 
time, and many of them have much altered 
and improved the building. The Earl of 
Portland, Sara Duchess of Marlborough, Sir 
Jeffry Wyatville, William Duke of Cum- 
berland (he having received the Ranger- 
ship after the Battle of Culloden), and the 
brother of George III., are some of those who 
have held this office. Much of the house is 
covered with the ancient ivy clinging to it. 

One side of it has the appearance of a long, 
straight-looking building, three stories high, 
with a square portico entrance ; while another 
side shows towers, gables, and projecting 
wings, which have very much the appearance 
of having been added to the main building 
from time to time. 

As nearly everybody knows, it is now the 
residence of Their Royal Highnesses the 
Prince and Princess Christian ; the latter 
known to everybody for the great interest she 
takes in the welfare of the working classes, 
for her untiring zeal in all movements of 
philanthropy, and more especially, perhaps, 
for her never-ceasing activity with regard to 
nursing associations and needlework guilds ; 
the former movement having been so 
thoroughly taken up and assiduously pushed 
forward by the Princess, that not only in 
England, but in the Colonies, have branches 
been formed of the " Royal British Nurses 
Association." " Institutes " and " Homes 
of Rest " are other branches of beneficial 
work for nurses. Nor is it the nurses only 
who have benefited ; the public may now be 
assured that, when a nurse is engaged from 
these institutes, she is certificated and 
qualified, and not a mere probationer in what 
may be truly termed the art of nursing. 

As soon as one enters the house, the 
impression is received that it is a comfortable, 
unpretentious home ; and not by any means a 

3 68 


From a Photo, by Mary Spencer- Warren 

State residence. This has not always been 
the home of the Prince and Princess Christian, 
as for several years they resided at Frogmore, 
and there their children were born, and 
played in the grounds around it. During 
the time of their 
life at Frogmore, it 
was no uncommon 
thing to see the 
Princess not only 
playing with the 
children in the 
grounds, but taking 
them round for an 
airing in the per- 
ambulator, so 
thoroughly did 
Her Royal High- 
ness enter into her 
home duties and 
the joys of mother- 

But we are now 
taking a peep at 
their present resi- 
dence. First we 
traverse a lengthy 
corridor, with a 

Suite Of rOOmS On From a Photo, by] 

our left and the offices and kitchens on our 
right. In this corridor I notice a number of 
hunting pictures, a collection of stags' heads 
— trophies of the Prince's gun in England and 
Scotland — some antique carved oak furni- 
ture, and a quaint time-piece of remarkable 
appearance and peculiar movement. The 
corridor terminates in a hall or vestibule, 
from which opens a wide staircase. This is a 
cool resting-place for warm days. Two of the 
largest stags' heads the house contains are 
here on the wall, bearing on tablets the 
respective weights of the animals, twenty- 
three and twenty-four stone odd, shot by 
the Prince in 1885. On an easel is a 
painting of the Princess Victoria, by Miss 
Deane ; a very good portrait. Next to this 
is the ante-room to the dining-room, in the 
corner of which stands a good-sized organ, 
formerly used when service was held in the 
house before the erection of the church near. 
The dining-room is capable of entertaining 
a large party ; it has some old paintings on 
the walls, principally by Stubbs. " William 
Duke of Cumberland," "Prince of Wales's 
Phgeton and Horse, with Thomas, the State 
Coachman," and three or four State horses. 
These pictures are interspersed with stags' 
heads. The sideboard at the far end has a 
massive silver centre-piece of special interest; 
at the summit of it stands the figure of the 
late Prince Consort, the base of the pedestal 
containing the following inscription : " I have 
fought a good fight, I have finished the faith. 
To Christian Victor Albert Ludwig Ernst 


[Mary Spencer-Warren, 



Anton of Schleswig-Holstein. In remem- 
brance of his grandfather, Albert Prince 
Consort, from his grandmother and god- 
mother, Victoria R. May 21st, 1867." The 
table just now is laid for luncheon, and made 
bright and attractive with flowers ; in the 
centre is a silver presentation cup, the 
property of Prince Christian Victor, given by 
the members of the Garth Hunt Club in 
1888. The prevailing tone of the room is 
green, with carved oak dado. 

The Princess Christian's room is im- 

brom a Photo, by] 


mediately near, and is perhaps one of the 
sunniest and prettiest rooms of the whole 
house ; the window looking out on the 
lawn and gardens. The ceiling is plainly 
painted, but from it hangs a beautiful 
Dresden floral chandelier, which was, I 
believe, a wedding present. The walls are 
papered in blue with a dark wood dado and 
gold beading ; they are nearly covered with 
pictures, some of which are of Frogmore and 
Windsor, while others are curious old pictures 
in colours, the majority being descriptive of 
sacred subjects. In one case is a splendid 
collection of miniatures, jewellery, and old 
china ; also there are several miniatures on 
the walls ; one very fine one representing the 
late Queen Caroline Amelia of Denmark. 
Then there is some Sevres china, and a very 
antique chest with inlaid picture panels. Of 
course, there is a collection of photographs 
of the family and friends ; also there are a 
great number of bound volumes of music 
of all the best masters. 

Vol. x.— 47 

As is well known, the Princess Christian 
is devoted to music, and though she plays 
a great deal at home and when in com- 
pany with her Royal mother, yet her talent 
is not reserved for these occasions, for it is 
quite an ordinary thing for her to organize, 
and take part in, concerts and entertainments 
for the benefit of the poor, or with a view to 
brightening the lives of those who may be 
inhabiting institutions for the suffering. Her 
Royal Highness is also a member of the 
Windsor Madrigal Society, regularly at- 
tending the prac- 
tices. There are 
now several suc- 
cessful artistes 
before the public 
who largely owe 
their success to 
the kindly help 
afforded them by 
the Princess Chris- 
tian. If you glance 
around the room 
you cannot fail to 
notice the large 
collection of 
books, and if you 
read the titles you 
come to the con- 
clusion that the 
Princess is an om- 
nivorous reader ; 
and this recalls 
the fact that Her 
Royal Highness is 
also a writer of some distinction, several able 
articles having emanated from her pen. The 
greater part of such writing has had for its 
object the distinct idea of help, to some 
cause or other. 

The drawing-room is a capacious apart- 
ment, and if there is a State room in the 
house it is this one ; but evidently such rooms 
are not much in favour with the family, for I 
am told it is seldom used, except when guests 
are present, the smaller and more cosy rooms 
being preferred. Grey and gold are the pre- 
dominant shades of its ornamentation. The 
painted portraits on the wall are those of the 
Queen, the Prince Consort, Prince and Prin- 
cess Christian, and Prince Christian's grand- 
mother. The floor is of polished oak, with 
Persian rugs ; the furniture being upholstered 
in various art colours, making a harmonious 
whole. Here are two large Russian vases, 
also several brackets containing antique 
china of great worth. Seme of the 
pretty things here seen, I believe, were 

[Mary Spencer- Warren. 



From a Photo. by\ 


[Mary Spencer-Warren. 

silver wedding presents, amongst which I 
particularly noticed a white silk cushion 
worked with pansies and silver thread, a really 
remarkable specimen of needlework. 

Returning once again to the hall, I enter 
the library by the first door on my right ; a 
room painted and decorated in chocolate, 
black, and gold. It is a small and snug 
apartment, where one may read in comfort, 
chairs and lounges looking particularly 
inviting and luxurious. The collection of 

From a Photo, by] 


books is large and varied, histories and 
biographies predominating ; amongst the 
latter may be noticed Lives of Mozart, 
Wilberforce, Napoleon III., and Pitt, while 
the histories seem to be those of nearly every 
country. The visitor will be particularly 
attracted by a fine painting over the mantel- 
piece by Noack, bearing the date 1867 — the 
picture showing striking portraits of the late 
Grand Duke and Duchess of Hesse, with 
three of their children. On the left of this is 
a good portrait of 
the late Dean 
Wellesley. Several 
further adorn the 
walls, and also a 
quaint old clock. 
Another fine skin 
on the floor testi- 
fies to the Prince 
Christian's skilful 
shooting. There is 
some old china 
and bronze orna- 
mentation, and 
more photographs, 
one of which is 
particularly in- 
teresting to me, as 
it represents Her 
Majesty the Queen 

[Mary Spencer-Warren. an Q the Prince OI 



From a Photo, by] 



Wales, taken when I was present at 
Royal wedding at Coburg, in 1894. 

The next door to this opens into the Prince 
Christian's sitting - room. It is literally 
crowded with knick-knacks and curios. On 
the walls there seems scarcely to be an inch 
of room, so great is the number of pictures 
and stag - horns — several of the pictures 
being of animal life. Some show pretty bits 
of scenery in water-colours, and others are 
portraits, chiefly noticeable being those of 
the father and mother of the Prince Chris- 
tian, and those of Their Royal Highnesses' 
daughters. Books and portraits abound, as 
do all sorts of interesting 
and pretty little articles, 
many of them souvenirs. 
In the centre of the room 
stands an escritoire, and 
over in one corner — a snug 
corner, too — is a writing- 
table, showing signs of 
much use ; and a particu- 
larly inviting-looking easy 
chair. This is the Prince's 
favourite corner, and here 
he is accustomed to pass 
much of his time when 
indoors. I may say here 
that the Prince Christian 
very graciously received 
me at Cumberland Lodge, 
and was most especially 
kind to me in affording 
facilities for seeing and 
photographing the various 
parts of the house. I had 

previously had 
many opportuni- 
ties of seeing His 
Royal H igh- 
ness at State cere- 
monies, at which 
his tall, command- 
ing figure in 
General's uniform 
is a familiar pre- 
sence ; but, of 
course, I am 
always more par- 
ticularly gratified 
when on my 
numerous occa- 
sions of visiting 
Royal residences I 
am able to come 
in contact with 
the c e Royal per- 
sonages in their 
every-day home life. From each one I have 
always received the utmost consideration, and 
I felt quite sure, before going to Windsor, 
that I should not find any exception to the 
rule in the Prince and Princess Christian. You 
may, or you may not, know that the Prince 
is an immense favourite with all the members 
of our Royal Family ; all the younger ones 
affectionately speaking of him as " Uncle 
Christian." He is a great lover of all 
athletic and manly sports ; hunting, shooting, 
cricket and football, all find in him an ardent 
and active patron. Of horses and dogs he 
is particularly fond, and at the request of 

[Mary Spencer 


From a Photo, by Mary Spencer-Warren. 



From a Photo, by] 


[Mary Spencer- Warren. 

His Royal Highness, I had the opportunity 
of accompanying him and his daughter, the 
Princess Victoria, to see some of the favourite 
occupants of the stables, and to photograph 

Passing up the wide staircase, I reach 
thereby long corridors and several suites 
of rooms. Turning to the right, I find first 
the sitting-room of the Princess Victoria. 
Just now the Princess is occupying it, but 
knowing I am anxious to take a photograph, 
she very kindly tells me I am at liberty to do 
so. It is a pretty room with walls dressed in 
grey, and dado of a deeper hue. A prominent 
feature is the beautiful grand piano, which 
stands open, and the strains, indeed, of which 


I had just been listening to as I came 
up the staircase. You will not need, 
perhaps, to be told that the Princess 
inherits her Royal mother's musical talent. 
Water-colours, engravings, and family por- 
traits adorn the walls, together with a number 
of curios on pretty brackets. Comfortable 
chairs, with covers and cushions showing 
beautiful art needlework in silk, abound, 
while flowers and ferns, with the hundred 
and one knick-knacks of a lady's boudoir, 
make up a charmingly picturesque effect. 
The well-used writing-table has a pile of 
correspondence on it, and a number of 
beautifully mounted fittings. Flowers are in 
every direction, and a plenitude of books 
and music. Alto- 
gether, the apart- 
ment is not only 
charmingly pretty, 
but is also evi- 
dently the scene 
of study and work. 
The Princess 
Victoria is no 
stranger to the 
public, for she is 
the able and will- 
ing coadjutor of 
the Princess Chris- 
tian in all her 
beneficent work ; 
and where the 

[Mary Spencer- Warren. mother goes, SO 



does the daughter, as a general rule. So 
numerous have the appeals for help become, 
that it is a fact that neither of the Royal ladies 
has an idle minute — one continual round of 
duty ever presenting itself. On one of my days 
at Cumberland Lodge, the Princess Victoria 
made a casual remark that she was going to 
see a sick child ; and I afterwards learned 
that it was the little son of an employe that 
was to be visited. A critical operation had 
been necessary, and this had been performed 
by an eminent surgeon; two trained nurses had 
also been engaged to take charge of the case, 
all at the sole expense of the Princess 
Christian. In addition to this, everything 
necessary for the child was being sent from 
the Lodge, and at the same place sleeping 
accommodation for the nurses was accorded, 
the cottage being too small for the purpose. 
This case came to my knowledge in the 
most casual way, and is doubtless only one 
of many similar instances which never come 
before the public. 

Resuming my tour of the mansion, I go next 
to the dressing-room of Her Royal Highness 

From a Photo, by] 


the Princess Christian, another tastefully 
furnished room — artistic, yet homely. The 
walls are papered in green of a pretty shade, 
with a darker dado. The floor is of polished 
oak, with a handsome Persian square. There 
are two writing-tables in the room, one in 
the centre, and another in front of one of 
the two windows. Here the Princess passes 
many a busy hour, engaged with her very 
large correspondence. There are a number 

of things to be seen here which must be 
interesting to the occupant of the room, as 
they have been presents ; some given on the 
occasion of the silver wedding — amongst 
these latter some silver caskets are especially 
noticeable. On one of the tables is a 
beautifully mounted gold dressing-service. 
On the walls I notice a large number of 
photographs of the Royal Family, amongst 
them being the Queen and the Prince 
Consort, Prince Christian, and the sons 
and daughters of the house. Portraits 
are everywhere ; as are flowers, books, and 
curios of all sorts. The windows are taste- 
fully hung with lace and floral curtains. 
Over in one corner I notice a glass shade, 
which, on approaching, I find covers an object 
doubtless much prized by the Princess 
Christian, being her own bridal wreath ; and 
on the wall in the opposite corner I descry 
something else worth seeing— .the framed 
certificate gained by Her Royal Highness 
for proficiency in nursing. The whole of 
the furniture is of satin wood, and the room 
is lighted with a hanging coloured lamp. 

In the Princess's 
bedroom, the pre- 
vailing tones are 
green and silver, 
with bed and 
lounge upholstery 
in gold and brown 
brocade. The 
panels of the door 
are beautifully 
painted — the artis- 
tic talents of the 
Princess and her 
daughter make it 
very possible that 
the work is theirs. 
portraits, engra- 
vings, and old 
prints adorn the 
walls in profu- 
sion. . Many of the 
articles are en- 
amelled in white, 
and the furniture here, again, is chiefly of 
satin wood. The large over-mantel is almost 
filled with old china, more of which is dis- 
played on brackets and side-tables. A 
pretty Parisian timepiece, some gold and 
silver curios, and quantities of flowers 
are other objects which meet the eye. 
Three handsome screens are in various 
positions — one has glass panels, another 
panels of silk ; also there is an abundance of 

[Mary Spencer- Warren. 



From a Photo, by] 


UHary Spencer- Warren. 

art needlework on cushions, and a basket of 
wool-work which speaks of the guilds in 
which many of the Royal Family are so 
much interested. And here occurs to me 
the great service Her Royal Highness has 
rendered to poor gentlewomen in the interest 
she has displayed in the Royal School of Art 
Needlework. By means of this school many, 
who would otherwise lack many necessaries 
of life, are enabled by their own exertions to 
obtain them. 

Visiting the poor is another mission that 
I must briefly touch upon. How many 
families have been helped, how many homes 
brightened and hearts cheered, by the active 
sympathy of the daughter of England's Queen 
will never be known. Not only the poor 
around her gates, but the toilers of the great 
City are familiar with the Royal lady's 
presence, and thi in the very slums and 

To children the Princess is devotedly 
attached, and the mere enumeration of the 
many branches for aid to the little ones 
would take up some considerable space. 
Meals for those who come from homes 
where good food is impossible, is one direction 
in which very timely help is afforded. All 
through the bad weather numbers of the 
children are fed twice a week at the Town Hall, 
Windsor ; Her Royal Highness herself being 
generally present, busily occupied in minister- 
ing to their wants. For their amusement and 
recreation she also works hard, both in 
organizing evening entertainments for them, 
and taking part in games ivith them. Those 

of them who are ill are not neglected, very 
active help being rendered to the Children's 
Country Holiday Association. Quite near 
the Princess's home there is a small branch 
in connection with the Ragged School, and 
here sick boys are sent down for a fortnight's 
holiday, having the beautiful park for a play- 
ground, and the two Princesses for constant 
visitors. Many a little delicacy, and many a 
present, finds its way from Cumberland Lodge 
to this home. 

Infant day nurseries is another project in 
which the Princess Christian displays an un- 
bounded interest. Many a poor woman may 
find herself sorely puzzled to know what to 
do with the children while she is out helping 
to earn, or, in many cases, entirely earning, 
the daily bread. Some are too young to 
leave entirely to themselves, and to pay the 
sum often demanded by people who take 
charge of them is a serious strain upon the 
woman's little income. At these nurseries the 
charge is so nominal, and the children are so 
well fed and cared for, that the boon to poor 
toilers can hardly be judged in an adequate 
measure. In all undertakings for the benefit of 
those who are less fortunately placed, the 
Princess not only brings to bear upon it 
kindly sympathy, but also undoubted tact ; 
everything and everybody being helped in 
so thoroughly practical a manner, that just 
what is necessary and best is done in each 
case, and while imposition is rendered next 
to impossible, actual poverty and distress of 
every kind are ameliorated. 

As might be expected, a most thorough 



English training has been imparted to the 
young Princes and Princesses ; and the 
maxim of doing well everything they do at 
all has been most thoroughly inculcated. 
Both the sons are soldiers, one of them 
having seen much active service in India. 
The youngest daughter was married to 
the Prince Aribert of Anhalt some time ago. 
When I was down at the Lodge, one son 
was at home, but only for a short period ; 
generally speaking, the Princess Victoria is the 
only youthful member of the family there, and 
so is companion to both father and mother, 
sharing the love of animals and the rides 
across country of the former, as well as 
helping the many 
projects of the 

There yet re- 
main one or two 
other rooms to 
see ; one of them 
is the dressing- 
room of the 
Prince Christian. 
This is essentially 
plain in appear- 
ance ; painted 
ceiling and 
papered walls, 
with solid -look- 
ing furniture ; a 
veritable marts 
room. Even the 
pictures are 
groups in athletic 
dress : some in 
cricket costume, 
some in football. 

There are also some portraits of the children, 
and of the Prince's father and mother, 
and over the mantelpiece is a very pretty 
flower painting, the artist being the Princess 

Away up the other end of the broad 
corridor I come upon a smaller one, replete 
with marble busts, old cabinets, bronze 
equestrian statues, and another collection of 
antlers ; also a number of comical pictures, 
known as Forbes's hunting accomplishments. 
Of course this does not nearly exhaust the 
rooms, or the interesting objects contained 
in Cumberland Lodge. There are the apart- 
ments of the young Princes, those reserved 

for visitors, and 
those for the 
suite, irrespective 
of the kitchen 
and other offices. 
It is a goodly 
and fair English 
home, and in- 
habited by a 
family altogether 
and entirely Eng- 
lish in ideas and 
tastes. And 
though every 
member so ably 
supports the 
British Royal 
dignity, yet they 
are one with the 
people in their 
joys and sorrows, 
and so true re- 
spect and love 
surround them on 
every hand. 

From a photo, by] 


Stories from the Diary of a Doctor. 


By L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax, M.D. 

[This story is founded on a true incident.] 

WAS sent for one day towards 
the end of a certain very hot 
June to see a boy who was ill 
at a large preparatory school 
in the neighbourhood of 
London. The school was in 
the country, about an hour's drive from town. 
My message was urgent, and I did not lose 
any time in attending to it. I had but a 
very few minutes to catch my train, an 
express, and had at the last moment to make 
a rush, first for my ticket, and then for a 
seat in the railway compartment. I opened the 
door of a first-class carriage just as the train 
was moving, and found that I was to 
take my brief journey to Wickham in the 
company of a single fellow-passenger. He 
was a man inclining to the elderly side of 
life, and when I got into the carriage his 
head was buried in a large sheet of the 
Times. He just glanced up when I appeared, 
and then, quickly looking down, resumed his 
reading. I did not interrupt him, but sat 
leaning back in my own seat lost in anxious 
thought. I had several bad cases on my 
visiting list just then, and was in no mood even 
to read. Presently 
I observed that 
my fellow-traveller 
had folded up his 
paper, and sitting 
so that I could get 
a view of his pro- 
file, was looking 
steadily out at the 
landscape. Hither- 
to, I had regarded 
him with the most 
scanty measure of 
attention, but now, 
something in the 
expression of his 
face aroused my 
keen and immedi- 
ate interest. 

He was a hand- 
some man, tall and 
well - developed — 
the outline of his 
face was delicate 
and finely carved. 
The nose was 
slightly aquiline — 


a snow-white beard hid the lower part of 
the features, but the forehead, nose, and 
finely-shaped head were magnificently pro- 
portioned. It gives me pleasure to look at 
perfection in any form, and this man's whole 
appearance very nearly approached my ideal. 
He must suddenly have observed that I was 
paying him marked attention, for he turned 
swiftly and glanced at me. His eyes, of a 
bright hazel, seemed to lift and lighten for a 
moment, then they filled with a most impene- 
trable gloom, which was so marked as to be 
almost like despair. He opened his lips as 
if to speak, but evidently changed his mind, 
and once more confined his gaze to the land- 
scape, not a feature of which I am sure by 
his expression did he see. 

Soon afterwards we arrived at Wickham, 
a small country town, after which the school 
was named. I saw that my travelling com- 
panion was also getting out here. We found 
ourselves the only passengers on the platform, 
and the next moment I heard the stranger 
inquiring, in somewhat testy tones, for a con- 
veyance to take him immediately to Wickham 
House. The doctor's brougham was wait- 
ing for me, and as 
Wickham House 
was also my desti- 
nation, I stepped 
up at once to my 
.. fellow-traveller, 
and offered him a 

He stared at me 
as if he had only 
seen me then for 
the first time. 

" I am extremely 
obliged to you, 
sir," he said, re- 
covering himself 
with a start ; " the 
fact is, I am 
anxious to reach 
the school in order 
to catch an early 
train back to 
town. I will accept 
your offer with 

" Step in, won't 
you ? " I said. 



We both entered the brougham, and were 
soon bowling away in the direction of the 
school. As we were driving through the 
antiquated little town, my companion roused 
himself to be animated and talkative, but 
when we got into the more country parts, he 
lapsed into silence, and the stupor of dull 
despair once more spread itself over his 
features. I endeavoured to keep the con- 
versation going, touching lightly on many 
topics of general interest, but he scarcely 

As we approached the house, driving up to 
it through a winding avenue, he heaved a 
profound sigh, and cast a glance up at the 
many windows. The building was a fine old 
gabled mansion of the Elizabethan period — 
the main part of the house was completely 
covered with ivy. 

"Wickham House looks quite imposing," 
I said, with a smile ; " this is my first visit- 
can you tell me if there are many boys 
here ? " 

" A couple of hundred, I believe," he 
replied. " It is a fine building, and the 
situation is exceptionally good. You would 
suppose that a lad would be safe here, would 
you not ? " 

"It seems to me that boys are safe no- 
where," I replied. " I am a doctor, and am 
coming here to-day to see a little chap who 
has fallen on his head and hurt himself 

" Ah ! " he answered, " I did not allude to 
that sort of ordinary danger. Sir, there is 
something in your face which makes me 
willing to confide in you. I am the father 
of an only boy — if he is alive now, he is 
fourteen years of age — as fine a lad as ever 
stepped, strong and hearty, with all the 
athletic propensities of the best order of 
young Britain. I sent him here, to prepare for 
Eton ; he would have gone there at the end of 
the summer holidays. Two months ago he 
vanished — yes, that is the only word. Ah ! 
here we are." 

We drew up at the front door. My 
companion got out first, and I followed. 
I was met on the threshold of the house 
by the local doctor — a man of the name of 
Hudson ; he was waiting for me anxiously, 
and took me off at once to see my patient. 
I had no time, therefore, to observe my. 
fellow-traveller any further. 

The boy whom I had come to see was 
very ill — in fact, in great danger ; and my 
attention was completely taken up by his 
case until late in the evening. In the interest 
aroused by this acute illness, I had forgotten 

Vol. x.— 48. 

all about my strange companion, but just as 
I was leaving, Dr. Hudson, who was taking 
me through the hall of the great house on 
my way to the carriage, spoke abruptly. 

" By the way, Halifax, I saw that you gave 
Mr. Cavendish a seat to the school. He 
has spent the day here, and is returning to 
London now. You have no objection, have 
you, to his sharing your conveyance back to 
the station?" 

" None whatever," I replied. " He is a 
fine-looking man — I did not know his name 
until you mentioned it. There is something 
about him which interests me. By the way, 
he told me a queer story — he said that he 
once had a son here, but that the boy 
vanished about two months ago. 

" That is perfectly true. The case is a terrible 
one, intact, quite a tragedy. The boy was, 
without the least doubt, the victim of a 
horrible plot. The circumstances of his 
disappearance were as follows : One day, Dr. 
Hughes, our head master, received a letter 
purporting to be written by the boy's father. 
It was to all appearance in his handwriting ; 
the paper was headed with his crest and his 
private address in Essex. The letter was a very 
brief one, and requested Dr. Hughes to send 
Malcolm up to Paddington the following day, 
in order to see an aunt whom the boy had 
not met since he was an infant. 

" ' Either his aunt or I will meet him at the 
bookstall on the arrival platform,' wrote Mr. 
Cavendish. ' In case, by any chance, I am 
not present, let him wear a red tie — Lady 
Seymour will recognise him by that. Send 
up one of the masters with him, and do not 
fail to let him be there — he shall return to 
school the following day.' 

" Naturally, after the receipt of such a 
letter, there was nothing for Dr. Hughes to 
do but to comply. He sent the boy to town 
accompanied by one of the junior masters, 
Mr. Price — they went as directed, and stood 
near one of the bookstalls. Presently a well- 
dressed, middle-aged lady came up — she 
embraced the boy tenderly, told him that she 
was his aunt, Lady Seymour, and took him 
away with her in a hansom. Price, quite satis- 
fied that all was right with the boy, returned 
here, and it was not until the following day, 
when Malcolm failed to appear, that the first 
idea of anything being wrong entered Dr. 
Hughes's mind. He telegraphed to Mr. 
Cavendish at his place in Essex, but received 
no reply. He became possessed with a sense 
of uneasiness which he could scarcely account 
for, and went himself to Essex that night. 
On his arrival at ' The Howe,' Mr. 




Cavendish's place, you can imagine his con- 
sternation when he heard that the house was 
shut up, that Lady Seymour was still in India 
with her husband, and that Mr. Cavendish was 
somewhere on the Continent, address not 
known. What followed can be better imagined 
than described. The letter was, of course, a 
forgery ; the woman who took the boy off 
had left no address behind her, nor has 
Malcolm Cavendish from that hour to now 
been heard of. Such is the pitiable story. 
There was a short delay in getting Mr. 
Cavendish's address ; but as soon as possible 
the distracted father returned to England, 
and not a stone has been left unturned to try- 
to obtain a trace of the missing lad. Up to the 
present all our efforts have been unsuccessful. 
The boy is an only son, the heir to a fine 
estate ; the poor father's agony of mind I 
leave you to conjecture. In short, unless 
something happens soon to relieve the 
tension of anxiety and despair, his mind may 
be seriously overbalanced." 

" It is a terrible story," I said. " What an 
awful villain that woman must be. Who is 
she ? " 

" Nobody knows. When questioned, Mr. 
Cavendish always shirks the subject. Even 
the detectives can get nothing out of him. 

If he does know anything about her, he 
refuses to tell." 

" Well," I said, " your story quite accounts 
for the expression on his face. I wish with 
all my heart that something could be done 
to relieve him." 

" Get him to confide in you if you can, 
doctor, on yoi^r way to town ; you will be 
doing a good work, I assure you ; one of the 
saddest features of the case, as far as the old 
man is concerned, is that he keeps his grief 
so completely -to himself. If you can 
manage to break the ice, you will be doing 
him a service." 

" I will do what I can," I answered. 

Soon afterwards I had left Wickham 
House, and in Mr. Cavendish's company 
returned to London. Our compartment was 
full, and if I had wished to draw my com- 
panion out, I should not have had the oppor- 
tunity. During our short run to town, he sat 
nursing his grief, staring straight before him, 
apathy if not despair in his eyes — he was 
evidently at present in no mood to confide 
in anyone. We reached Paddington in 
good time, and I turned to bid him " good- 
bye." He looked at me with a queer 
expression on his face. 

" They spoke of you at the school to-day," 
he said ; " they told me one or two things 
about you — you do not quite fulfil the rdle of 
the ordinary physician — I wonder if it is 
possible for you to administer to a mind 

" That is the priest's mission, as a rule," I 
said ; then I added, suddenly, " but try me — 
come home with me now, if you like." 

" There is no time like the present,"- he 

My carriage was waiting — I conducted 
him to it, and in a short time we found our- 
selves at my house in Harley Street. I took 
him at once into my study, offered him 
refreshment, and then waited for him to 

" Do you make brain disease your special 
study ? " he said, abruptly. 

" Not my special study," I replied ; " but 
I have given a good deal of attention to 
mental disease." 

" Then what do you say to this ? I told 
you this morning that I once had a boy at 
Wickham House- — a fine lad, well-propor- 
tioned, sound, brave, and good in body and. 
mind. Owing to the strangest and most 
diabolical stratagem, he was entrapped away 
from school — a forged letter was used, and 
the name of my sister, Lady Seymour, 
brought into requisition. It is two months 



now since the fatal day when the boy was 
taken to London — since then, not the slightest 
clue has been obtained of his whereabouts. 
In short, as far as he is concerned, the earth 
might have opened and swallowed him up." 

" The story is most tragic," I replied. 

" Ah, you may well call it that. Such a 
tragedy happening to a man in connection 
with his only son is enough to — eh, doctor — 
enough to turn his brain, is it not ? " 

As Mr. Cavendish said these last words, 
his face suddenly altered — the look of des- 
pair gave place to a curious expression of 
stealthiness mingled with fear. He rose to 
his feet and gazed at me steadily. 

" I should like the truth from you," he 
said, coming a step nearer. " Is it true that 
I ever had a son ? For the last few weeks I 
have seriously considered every circumstance 
of this most strange case, and have almost 
come to the conclusion that I am suffering 
from a very queer state of illusion. More 
and more, as the days go by, I incline to the 
belief that I never had a son. It is true that 
I carry the photograph of a boy in my pocket 
— I often take it out and look at it — I gaze at 
it sometimes for nearly an hour at a time, 
and say to myself, over and over, ' I have 
watched your face since you were an infant. 
Yes, I have certainly seen you — I have held 
you in these arms. I have seen the look of in- 
telligence growing in your eyes. I have ob- 
served your progress from childhood to boy- 
hood. But, no, perhaps you are only a dream- 
child — perhaps I never possessed you. Here is 
a photograph, but may it not represent another 
man's son ? ' My mind is in this state of tor- 
ture, Dr. Halifax ; always vacillating from 
belief to unbelief, until I scarcely know what 
I am doing. Can you not see my point for 
yourself? How is it possible for me seriously 
to believe that a lad of fourteen could vanish 
from the face of the earth leaving no clue 
behind him ? " 

" The case is most mysterious," I replied ; 
" but with regard to its truth, I can absolutely 
and completely relieve your mind. You are 
not suffering from an illusion — you have 
really had a son — nay, I firmly believe him to 
be still alive. It so happens that Hudson, 
the doctor who attends the boys at Wickham 
House, told me your story to-day. Your 
boy was certainly at school there — he cer- 
tainly did exist. Your mind is slightly 
unbalanced by the terrible grief and anxiety 
you have undergone. Your duty now is to 
turn your thoughts resolutely from the idea 
that you are suffering from a case of delu- 

" The story of the disappearance is too 
unaccountable to believe," said Cavendish. 

" Have you a photograph of your boy 
about you ? " I asked. 

" I certainly have a photograph in my 
pocket, but whether it is a photogNiph of a 
stranger or of my son, I am unable to tell 

As he spoke he produced a thin morocco 
case, touched a spring, opened it, and placed 
it in my hands. It contained the photograph 
of as frank and handsome a lad as any man 
could desire to possess — the eyes, the face, 
the smiling lips, the open, courageous ex- 
pression of the brow, all showed that there 
was no duplicity or anything mean in the 
boy himself. One glance at his face, as it 
was reflected in the photograph, was quite 
sufficient to dispel any doubt as to his having 
connived at his own disappearance. What had 
happened to the boy ? Whose victim was 
he ? How and by what means had he been 
kidnapped so effectually as not to leave the 
ghost of a trace behind ? 

While I was looking at the picture of the 
lad, the father's eyes were fixed on me. I 
looked up suddenly and encountered his 

" This is a splendid boy," I said, " and," 
I continued, emphatically, " he is your son " 

" Why do you say that ? " he asked. 

" For the simple reason that he is like you 
— he has got your eyes, and the expression 
you must have worn when you were happy." 

" I never thought of that," he answered. 

He took the photograph into his hand and 
studied it carefully. 

" I suppose he must be my son," he said. 
" I see what you mean. I used to have those 
particularly bright hazel eyes when I was 

" You have them still," I said ; " you have 
transmitted them to your boy." 

" Well, be it so. It is a relief to hear you 
speak, for you speak with confidence ; but 
when I am alone the intolerable delusion 
invariably returns that I never had a son — all 
the same, I am as tortured as if I really 
possessed and lost a boy like that." 

" The thing to cure you is simple enough," 
I said. 

" What is that ? " 

" We must find your boy and bring him 
back to you." 

" Ah, Dr. Halifax— ah, if you could ! " 

" Sit down," I said, " let us talk the matter 
out carefully." 

" I have talked it out carefully so often," 
he said, pressing his hand to his brow in a 

3 8o 



bewildered manner. " At first I was all on 
fire — I was nearly distracted — I spent money 
wildly, here, there, and everywhere — I was 
full of hope. Although I was nearly mad, 
my hope of finally discovering the lad never 
deserted me. But of late the queer feeling 
that the whole thing is a delusion comes to 
me whenever I attempt to take any steps to 
find the boy. Granted that you have cured 
me for the time being, I shall go back to my 
rooms at the Albany to-night, and assure 
myself once again that it is useless to fret, 
for I never had a son." 

" We will not encourage that delusion by 
talking of it," I said. " Rest assured that you 
had a son, that in all probability you still 
have one, and that it is your bounden duty 
to search the earth until you recover him." 

" Do you say so, indeed ? With what energy 
you speak." 

" It is necessary to speak with energy," I 
replied ; " the case is pressing, you must 
move Heaven and earth to get back that boy. 
It is impossible for you to tell what fate may 
now be his." 

" I cannot do more than I have done, 
doctor — at the present moment there are two 
detectives working day and night in my 
service. From the moment Price, the junior 
master at Wickham House, saw the boy step 
into a hansom with a woman who pretended 
to be his aunt, he has vanished as com- 
pletely and utterly as if he had never existed." 

" The boy has been very cleverly kid- 

napped," I said. " The woman who 
pretended to be his aunt is, of course, 
at the bottom of the whole affair. 
There is no reason to suppose that 
money has had anything to do with 
this strange case ; the boy was also 
much too old to be trained as an 
acrobat — in short, the case plainly 
points to revenge." 

" Revenge," said Cavendish, fixing 
his eyes on me, and giving me a 
startled and astonished glance — 
" Who could possibly hate a boy 
like that?" 

" Not likely," I replied ; " but 
someone could hate you. Have you 
an enemy ? " 

" If you ask me if I have an 
enemy, I think I can honestly reply 
' No,' " he answered, after a little 

" You speak with doubt," I said. 

" I will slightly change my question. 

Had you an enemy in the past ? " 

" Oh, the past," he repeated, 

thoughtfully. " You are half a detective, 


" Only so far a detective," I replied, " that 
I have made human nature the one study of 
my life." 

" Doubtless such a study gives you clues to 
men's secrets," was the answer. " Well, I 
can give you an unpleasant history, but before 
I speak of it, I will just tell you one or two 
things with regard to my present. I married 
late in life. Shortly after the birth of the boy 
my wife died. Almost immediately after her 
death I came in for a fine property— an estate 
in Essex worth some thousands a year. The 
place is called ' The Howe,' and my boy and 
I have spent some happy Christmases there. 
The boy was the brightest creature — I could 
never be dull in his society — I was glad to 
feel that he would inherit my acres some day. 
When with him my past ceased to worry me." 
" I am sorry to have to ask you to rake up 
unpleasant memories/' I interrupted. 

" Yes, yes, I will tell you all. The fact is 
this :— 

" I was once obliged owing to strange 
circumstances to act in a very unpleasant, 
and what appeared to be almost a vindictive, 
way towards a woman. She was a Creole, a 
passionate and strikingly handsome creature. 
She had made the acquaintance of a young 
fellow, who was at the time one of my greatest 
friends — she induced him to promise her 
marriage. I doubted and distrusted her 
from the first, and moved Heaven and earth 



to keep my friend from committing himself 
to such a disastrous step as a marriage with 
her. All my expostulations were in vain — 
he was madly in love ; and this woman, Thora, 
had a most unbounded influence over him. 
Unexpectedly, it was given to me to put a 
spoke in her wheel. Even at the altar I was 
just in time to save my friend — I discovered 
that Thora had a husband already, and brought 
him to the church at the critical moment. 
All was up for her, then, of course ; but I 
shall never forget the look on her face. My 
poor friend died of yellow fever two months 
afterwards, and Thora's husband himself fell 
a victim to the fell disease. But I had 
made an enemy of this woman, and during 
the remainder of my stay in Jamaica she was 
a thorn in my side. One day she forced her 
way into my presence, and asked me if I 
would give her compensation for the injury I 
had inflicted on her. I asked her what she 
meant. She suggested that I should marry 
her myself. I refused, with horror. She 
bestowed upon me a glance of the most un- 
utterable hate, and told me that I should rue 
the day when I had ever interfered with her. 
" Shortly afterwards I went home, and 
sincerely hoped that I should never see her 
or be troubled by her again. Judge there- 
fore of my feelings when on the eve of my 
marriage I received a most intemperate letter 
from her. She again repeated the words 
which she had uttered when parting from 
me : ' You will rue 
the day you inter- 
fered with me.' She 
wrote to me from 
Jamaica, and being 
so far away, I did 
not think it pos- 
sible that she could 
carry out her 
threat, although 
from what I knew 
of her character I 
believed her to be 
quite capable of 
any mode of re- 
venge. I married, 
and was happy. 
Some years after- 
wards I received a 

newspaper with a marked passage ; it con- 
tained an account of this woman's marriage 
to a Swede. Since then I have heard nothing 
about her. Let us forget her, Dr. Halifax — 
she could not possibly have had anything to 
do with the disappearance of my son, and the 
subject is most distasteful to me." 

" Nevertheless, from what you have told 
■me, it is more than evident that if this woman 
is still living you have an enemy." 

" I had an enemy at the time, no doubt — 
but I scarcely think that even Thora would 
keep up her evil feelings for fourteen or fif- 
teen years, and then suddenly rise up as if 
from the grave to do me a fearful injury. 
The greatest dare-devil that ever lived would 
surely not allow her revenge to slumber so 

" That may or may not be," I said. " I 
consider what you have told me a most im- 
portant clue to the recovery of your boy. In 
short, not a moment should be lost in finding 
out where this woman now is." 

Mr. Cavendish shrugged his shoulders. 

" If she is really at the bottom of it," he 
said, after a pause, " we shall never find her. 
She was quite the cleverest woman I have 
known. In short, she was capable in the old 
days of outwitting twenty detectives. I have 
no reason to suppose that her talents 
have rusted with years. If she is at the 
bottom of this affair, the boy is hopelessly 

" You have no right to say so," I answered, 
with some indignation. " However bad and 
unscrupulous a woman may be, it is possible, 
surely, to outwit her. In short, you will 
forgive me for saying that this story should 
have been confided to your detectives some 
time ago." 


3 82 


Mr. Cavendish looked at me fixedly. 

" If you think so, I will tell them," he said. 
" It did not occur to me to connect her with 
the affair. My belief is that she is in all 
probability dead — she comes of a short- 
lived race. Yes, I think you are mistaken, 
but, as you say, no stone should be left un- 
turned, and I will have a talk with one of the 
detectives this evening." 

Mr. Cavendish left me soon afterwards. I 
felt that our interview had at least done this 
much good — it had shaken the terrible delu- 
sion which made him doubt that he had ever 
been the father of a son. I was glad at least 
of this, and wondered if it would be my fate 
to hear anything more of this strange story. 

The next day, to my surprise, Mr. Caven- 
dish called again upon me. 

" Well," I said, " I am glad to see you. 
What does your detective say ? How is the 
affair progressing ? What steps are being 
taken to find the woman Thora ? " 

He gave me a queer and somewhat un- 
steady glance. 

" The fact is this," he said : " I have said 
nothing whatever about that woman to the 
detectives employed in my service." 

I could not help feeling regret, and show- 
ing it. 

" Are you not aware," I said, " that there 
is not a day to be lost if you are ever to get 
possession of your boy again ? " 

" Ah, there's the rub," he said, slowly. 
" Had I a boy ? " He folded 
his hands tightly together, and 
looked straight out of the 
window. Then he turned 
suddenly round and looked 
me full in the face. 

"It is useless for you to 
argue the point," he said. 
" When I left you last night, 
that thing occurred which I 
told you would happen : I 
went to my rooms in the 
Albany, ordered dinner, and 
telegraphed to the detective 
MacPherson to call upon me. 
I had no sooner done so than 
I laughed at myself for my 
pains. I felt the delusion, or 
whatever you like to call it, 
coming upon me in full force. 
How could MacPherson re- 
cover for me what had never 
existed ? How .could I who 
never had a son embrace one ? 
I sat down to dinner, ate 
with appetite, refused to 

believe that I was suffering under any grief 
whatever, and when the detective arrived 
apologized for having troubled him, told 
him that I had nothing fresh to talk over, 
and dismissed him. No sooner had he 
gone than I regretted my own action — I 
perceived that my mind was verging to the 
other end of the pendulum. I spent a 
night of agony, bewailing the boy whom I 
then believed in — cursing myself for having 
dismissed the detective ; but now, again, the 
belief that I have no son is with me — 
you see for yourself what a state is mine — I 
am incapable of taking any efficient steps 
in this matter." 

" You are," I said, abruptly. " May I not 
take up the case for you ? " 

" You ? " he said, opening his eyes. " Good 
heavens ! what has a doctor to do with it ? " 

" I undertake it for you, because you are 
ill," I said, " because the story is peculiar, 
and because I am deeply interested." 

"You are good," he said. "Yes, act as 
you think well." 

"Give me your detective's address," I said 
— " I will have an interview with him this 
evening — and as you know that a woman 
called Thora certainly did exist in the past, 
give me what particulars you can with regard 
to her appearance." 

"She was dark and handsome," he 
answered — "a tall woman with flashing eyes. 
That was the description of her in the old 




days — if she is still alive, she is probably 
past recognition, her hair would in all 
probability be snow-white — I am an old man, 
and she is older. Oh, she is dead, doctor ; 
do not let us waste our time in thinking of 
her further." 

I made no reply to this, but took down 
in my note-book several particulars which 
I almost forced Cavendish to give me. He 
left me after a time, and in the course of the 
day I saw the detective, MacPherson. The 
man was a shrewd fellow, and I thought it 
best to take him completely into my con- 
fidence. He believed the fresh clue which I 
was able to furnish him with of the utmost 
importance — said that the name Thora was 
in itself so uncommon as to be a valuable 
guide, and promised to let me hear from him 
in a few days. 

A week passed by without anything fresh 
occurring — Cavendish was beginning to 
haunt my house — he came each morning 
and evening — his mind was still in a terrible 
state of unbalance — -verging one moment to 
the extreme limits of despair at the thought 
of the lad he had lost — half an hour after- 
wards doubting not only that he ever 
possessed a lad, but even that he himself really 
existed. I waited anxiously for news from 
the detective, but day after day passed with- 
out any clue whatever being forthcoming. 

One morning, early, I received a telegram 
which upset my own arrangements con- 
siderably — the telegram was from a very 
wealthy patient who was travelling in Russia, 
and who had been taken seriously ill. He 
believed himself to be dying in an out-of-the- 
way place called Bakou. He begged of me 
to come to him without a moment's delay. 
Expense was of no moment ; he urged me 
not to delay an hour in setting out on my 
long journey. The sick man was not only a 
patient of some years' standing, but was also 
a very old friend of mine. I could scarcely 
desert him in such stress, and, after a brief 
reflection, decided to go to him. I wired to 
him to expect me as soon as train and 
steamer could bring me to his side, and then 
went to Cook's office to get particulars with 
regard to my unlooked-for journey. Bakou 
is a small town on a tongue of land jutting 
into the Caspian Sea— it is on the west coast. 
I found, to my dismay, that it would not be 
possible for me to reach this remote corner 
of the world under ten days' hard travelling. 
I might slightly shorten my journey by going 
from London to Vienna, and then on to 
Odessa by train — but, travel day and night as 
fast as I could, it would be impossible for me 

to reach my poor friend under nine to ten 
days. I telegraphed to him again to this 
effect, but his reply, which reached me in the 
course of the evening, implored me to set oft' 
without an hour's delay. 

" I am alone in this horrible place," he 
telegraphed ; " no English doctor within 
reach. My last chance of life depends on 
your coming." 

I had scarcely read the words of this long 
foreign telegram, before the detective, Mac- 
Pherson, was ushered into my presence. 

" Well, sir," he said, doffing his hat as he 
spoke, " I am sorry to have kept you and the 
other gentleman waiting so long, but I do 
think I have got a bit of a clue at last." 

" Pray be seated," I said, " and tell me 
all about it." 

MacPherson seated himself on the edge of 
a chair, holding his round, soft hat between 
his knees. 

" It is a queer business altogether," he 
said, " but the fact is, I have traced the boy 
to Vienna." 

"Vienna!" I said, startled. "What do 
you mean ? " 

" What I say, sir. After very careful in- 
quiries, I have found out that a lad, exactly 
answering to the description of Master 
Cavendish, went in the company of two 
women, one young, one middle-aged, via 
Calais and Dover, to Vienna about ten weeks 
ago. Let me see, this is the 5th of July ; 
the day the boy went to London was the 
26th of April. A fair and a dark lady 
accompanied by a lad in all points answering 
to the photograph, a copy of which I hold in 
my pocket, started for Vienna on that day. 
From there they went straight on to Odessa. 
I can't trace them any farther. One of the 
women would answer to the description Mr. 
Cavendish gave you of the Creole whom he 
used to know in his early youth. She is a 
handsome, tall woman, with a slender, well- 
preserved figure— -flashing, dark eyes, and hair 
which is only slightly sprinkled with grey — 
she evidently had an accomplice with her, 
for a fair-haired woman, much younger, ac- 
companied her and the boy. Now, sir, I 
propose to start for Odessa to-night, in order 
to follow up this clue. In a case of this 
kind, and in such a remote part of the world, 
only personal investigation can do anything." 

"You are right," I answered. "Now, I 
have something strange to tell you. I am 
also starting for Odessa this evening." 

The man gaped at me in astonishment. 

" Yes," I replied, " I am going to Odessa 
en route to a place on the Caspian Sea of the 



name of Bakou. After what you have just 
informed me, I shall endeavour to persuade 
Mr. Cavendish to go with me." 

The detective rubbed his hands slowly 

" Nothing can be better for my purpose," he 
answered, after a pause — " only Mr. Cavendish 
must be quite certain to keep himself dark, 
for if this woman Thora really kidnapped the 
boy, she will be able, in a Russian town 
like Odessa, effectually to hide him or even 
to take his life, if her object is revenge and 
she knows that his father has arrived." 

"What can have induced the boy to go 
with her ? " I said. " A lad of fourteen has 
surely a will of his own." 

"Oh, she made up something, sir — the 
matter seems to me plausible 
enough. The lad was sent 
for to town on the pretext 
of meeting his aunt. This 
woman would tell the un- 
suspecting boy that his 
father, who was then on the 
Continent, had desired her 
to bring him out to him. 
Of course, the lad would 
follow her then to the 
world's end, and be only 
too pleased to do so. Well, 
doctor, I will leave you now, 
and prepare for my long 

I bade the man "good- 
bye," and sent a wire to 
Mr. Cavendish, to ask him 
to call on me at once. He 
was at home, and arrived 
at my house between six 
and seven o'clock. 

" I have news for you," 
I said, the moment he ap- 

I then told him of the 
sudden journey which I was 
obliged to make, briefly 
related the interview which 
I had just had with the 
detective, and then pro- 
posed that he should ac- 
company me to Odessa. 

" I feel full of hope," I 
said. " Your presence on 
the spot may be necessary 
in order to identify your son, 
can you be ready to join me ? " 

He had been looking depressed and full 
of despair when he entered the room, but the 
news which I had for him acted like cham- 


How soon before me 

pagne. His eyes brightened, he clenched 
his hands in a thoroughly healthy manner, 
used some strong words with regard to Thora, 
and then said that he would accompany me. 
" Go back to the Albany at once," I said ; 
" pack what is necessary for your journey, get 
some money, and meet me at Victoria at a 
quarter to eight. We can talk as much as 
we like en route, but now there is not a 
moment to lose." 

" You are right," he said. "I am a new 
man ; the terrible delusion seems to have left 
me completely. I will be at Victoria at the 
hour you name." 

He had drawn himself up to his full height. 
Already he looked ten years younger. He 
left my house, and, punctually to the moment, 
I met him on the departure 
platform at Victoria Station. 
We took our seats in the 
train, and were soon steam- 
ing away at a rapid pace 
towards Dover. I need not 
describe the early part of 
our journey — it was abso- 
lutely uneventful. Travelling 
right through, we reached 
Vienna in about thirty hours 
from the date of our depar- 
ture from London. At 
Vienna I got my first glimpse 
of the detective, MacPher- 
son, who was travelling in 
the same train, but second- 
class. He was dressed in 
a rough tweed suit, which 
completely metamorphosed 
his appearance. 

We reached Odessa at 
night, and I found, almost 
to my relief, for I was com- 
pletely tired out, that there 
were no means of continuing 
my journey until the follow- 
ing morning. On making 
inquiries, I found that I 
must now take steamer and 
cross the Black Sea to a 
place called Batoum. The 
journey by steamer would 
take some days, as the only 
boats available would coast 
a good deal. My duty, of 
course, lay straight and clear 
I was on my way to my sick 
friend, but I found rather to my dismay that 
Cavendish, left alone, would be almost in- 
capable of guiding himself. His mind was 
without any doubt in a weak state. Full of 



hope as he was during the greater part of that 
long journey, the painful illusion that he was 
following a vain quest, a will-o'-the-wisp, the 
dictation of a dream, came over him from 
time to time. Left alone at Odessa, he would 
in all probability spoil MacPherson's game. 

" You had better come with me," I said ; 
" you will do no good here. MacPherson is 
as sharp a fellow as I ever met. As soon as 
he gets a real clue, he can telegraph to you, 
and you can return. Your best plan now 
will be to come with me, and give him a 
clear coast." 

" I see no good in that," he replied ; " it 
seems that a boy answering to my son's 
description has undoubtedly reached this 
place. I should know that woman among a 
thousand— I should know the boy — whether 
he is a dream-boy or my own son, God alone 
can tell ; but I should know his face again. 
Why should I leave the place ? " 

" You must please yourself, of course," I 
answered ; " my own course is plain. I must 
take steamer for Batoum at nine o'clock to- 
morrow morning. If you like, you can 
accompany me, and I shall be glad to have 
you, but if not, I trust you will telegraph to 
me as soon as anything transpires." 

" I will do so assuredly," he answered. 

Almost immediately afterwards we both 
retired for the night. In the early morning 
I received a note from Cavendish. 

" I have made up my mind to remain at 
Odessa for a week at least," he wrote. 

I tore up the note, and prepared for my 
own journey — I was to be on board the 
steamer at nine o'clock. When I went down 
to the quay I saw MacPherson standing there 
looking about him with all an Englishman's 
curiosity. In his rough suit, he looked like 
the typical traveller ; he touched his hat and 
came up to me. 

" Mr. Cavendish stays behind," I said to 
him, briefly ; " you will look after him, will 
you not ? " 

" Yes, sir ; but it is best for me not to 
appear to know him." 

" Have you made any plans for yourself ? " 
I asked. 

" I believe I have got a clue, Dr. Halifax, 
but I am not quite certain yet. I know a 
little of many languages — even a few words 
of Russian. At a cafe last night I met a 
Russian who knows the part of the world 
where you are going. There is a great 
colony of Swedes there — that woman married 
a Swede." 

I nodded. 

" Well, there are Swedes at Bakou — in 

Vol. x.--49. 

fact, the most important part of the popula- 
tion consists of that nationality — the great 
firm of Nobel Brothers have their kerosene 
works there —theirs are much the largest 
kerosene refining works in the world. My 
Russian friend knows all about them. He 
informed me that there is a woman there 
who speaks English — the wife of one of the 
overseers. The point for us to find out now 
is: Who is this English-speaking woman? 
Can she be the one whom we are seeking ? 
I shall not leave Odessa until the next 
steamer starts, in order to search this place 
thoroughly, but it is more than probable 
you will see me some day before long at 

" If you come, you had better bring Mr. 
Cavendish with you," I said. 

" I must be guided by circumstances," he 

It was now time for me to go on board 
the steamer, which almost immediately after- 
wards got under way. 

I shall not soon forget the tedium, and yet 
the wonderful beauty, of that voyage — the 
steamer coasted almost the entire way, and 
in consequence our progress was slow, but 
in process of time we reached the large town 
of Batoum. From there I took train to 
Tiflis, and in course of time found myself at 
Bakou. My journey had, as I anticipated, 
quite covered ten days. A more desolate-look- 
ing town than Bakou it would be difficult to 
find. The place at one time belonged to the 
Persians, but is now owned by Russia — it is 
built on a sand hill, and overlooks the 
Caspian Sea. High winds and clouds of 
sand scour the little town from morning to 
night. Of trees or green of any sort, there is 
none. I drove straight to the Hotel 
Metropole — the best in the place, where my 
friend, General Morgan, had rooms. The 
hotel was built, as is usual on the 
Continent, round a courtyard, and the 
sick man, of course, occupied the best 
rooms. I found him very ill, and my 
hope that I might be able immediately to 
bring him home was frustrated — he was 
suffering from a sharp attack of typhoid fever, 
and although the worst symptoms had now 
abated, there was little chance of his being 
moved for many weeks to come. When I 
entered his bedroom, I was surprised to see 
a woman dressed as an English nurse seated 
by his bedside. She rose when I entered and 
stood respectfully — when I spoke, she 
answered me in English — the patient's state 
had evidently filled her with alarm, and she 
was much relieved at seeing me. General 

3 86 


Morgan was too ill to enter into any conver- 
sation, and after a short time I left the room, 
beckoning to the nurse to follow me. 

" I am glad that you are here," I said ; 
" my patient is fortunate to have obtained 
the services of an English nurse." 

" Oh, I live here," she replied, speaking 
with a slightly foreign accent ; " my home is 
here ; I am the wife of a Swede of the name 
of Nehber. I happened to hear that an 
Englishman was very ill at the Metropole, 
and came a week ago to offer my services. 
I have been well trained as a nurse, and was 
glad of the chance of earning a little 
money on my own account. My patient 
told me that he had telegraphed to his 
English doctor to come out to him, so we 
have been expecting you, sir, and I took the 
liberty to engage a room in advance. May 
I show it to you now? " 

She led the way as she spoke along a 
gallery, opened the door 
of a spacious but not 
uncomfortable bedroom, 
and left me. When she 
had done so, I went 
straight to the window and 
looked out. The sight of 
this woman had aroused 
my keenest interest — her 
appearance en the scene 
was absolutely unexpected 
— she had doubtless saved 
my patient's life ; but, 
thankful as I was to her 
for that, it was not on 
General Morgan's account 
that my pulse beat faster 
than usual at the present 
moment. Was this by any 
strange chance the woman 
whom Cavendish had 
known long ago ? She 


spoke English well, she was 
extremely well preserved, but several signs 
showed me that she was no longer young — 
her figure was upright, she was well made 
— in her youth she was doubtless handsome. 
I felt disturbed, and at first regretted that 
neither the detective nor Cavendish had 
accompanied me. But on second thoughts 
I began to believe that I might manage this 
matter best by myself. Fru Nehber, as 
she was called, had no reason to suspect 
me. I was in very truth a bona-fide English 
doctor, who had come at great inconvenience 
to visit my patient. I might be able to draw 
her out — it might be my mission to rescue 
the boy. My heart beat high at the thought. 

After refreshing myself with a bath, I went 
into the town to collect my thoughts. The 
foreign and peculiar aspect of the place 
would at any other moment have filled me 
with interest. Almost every Eastern nation- 
ality seemed to be represented in the streets. 
Turks in green and rose colour, Persians 
with long, yellow silk coats, Tartars in their 
white tunics, small caps, and yellow boots — 
the place was alive wit'h colour and vivacity. 
The cries of all sorts of nations — in short, a 
confusion of tongues — resounded through the 
streets. I entered one of the bazaars, and tried 
to make myself understood, but found it im- 
possible, as the only languages spoken were 
Russian or Persian, with an occasional mixture 
of Swedish. I came back to the Metropole, 
and entering my patient's room, sat down by 
his side. The nurse — dressed quiedy, as an 
English nurse should be — stood now by one 
of the windows ; the casement was open to 
let in some air. My patient 
had awakened after a long 
sleep ; he turned his eyes 
and fixed them on my face. 
" You are good to come, 
Halifax," he said. " I am 
more grateful to you than 
I can say. I feel now that, 
what with Fru Nehber's 
care and yours, I have 
every chance of recovery." 
" Yes, you are very for- 
tunate in securing the 
attendance of an English 
nurse," I said. 

" I should have been 
dead long ago, but for 
her," he replied, speaking 
in a thin, weak voice. "In 
short, I owe my life to 

He gave the nurse a 
grateful glance, which she 
did not return — her hands were tightly 
locked together, her black eyes seemed to 
be watching the crowd, ever changing, but 
always present, who wrangled and chattered 
in the courtyard. A cart rattled in, making a 
loud noise — it was slightly built, with very 
high and slender wheels — some travellers 
alighted and entered the hotel — Fru Nehber 
left her position by the window, and came 
into the centre of the room. 

" Have you noticed our peculiar and in- 
teresting streets, doctor ? " she said, speaking 
with a low, rather strange, intonation, as if she 
weighed each word before she uttered it. 
" I have been in the streets," I replied. 



" I have never visited an Eastern town like 
this before — it is full of strange wonder to 
me ; but, of course, being unacquainted with 
any language spoken here, I am rather at a 
loss how to proceed." 

" You will permit me to be your in- 
terpreter," she said again — " I shall have 
pleasure in helping you in any way in my 

" That will be kind of you," I answered. 

" The patient will sleep after he has had 
his composing draught," she continued. 
" Will you come with me and see the place 
by moonlight ? " 

I responded in the affirmative. I went 
down stairs presently to supper, and by-and- 
by Fru Nehber, who now wore a long grey 
cloak, and a neat little nurse's bonnet, also 
grey, joined me. 

She took me out with her and explained 
much of the strange scene. 

" This is a queer place to live in," she 
said suddenly, clasping her hands ; " in short, 
it is death in life ; you can imagine, can you 
not, how I hate it ? " 

" I suppose you have a good reason for 
staying here," I said. " This is certainly the 
last place in the world in which I should 
expect to see a trained nurse and an English- 

" An Englishwoman never knows where 
she may go," was the reply ; "and then, have 
I not told you that I am married ? I am 
married to an overseer of the great kerosene 

" By the way, where are they ? " I asked. " I 
have heard a good deal of them from different 
travellers on my journey, and would much 
like to see them." 

She was silent for a moment, and seemed 
to hesitate. 

" You shall see them," she said then ; " but 
first tell me if it is your purpose to remain 
here long." 

" I shall probably stay for two or three 
days," I answered. " Of course, it is im- 
possible for me to remain long out of London, 
but now that I have come so far, I must see 
my patient right through the crisis." 

" It is past, I assure you, doctor ; your 
friend will live." 

" You seem to know a good deal about 
illness," I answered, giving her a keen glance. 

"There are few things I do not know," 
she replied ; " I have travelled much ; I 
understand life. Sorrow, regret, bitterness, 
have been my portion, but through these 
things we learn. You are doubtless a great 
doctor, and a clever man, • but you do not 

understand our Eastern illnesses. Your 
friend would have died but for me — now 
he will live, have no fear for him." 

" Well, I shall stay here for a day or two," 
I answered. " I will then return home and 
send out a friend of mine, also a medical 
man, who can bring General Morgan by 
easy stages to England when he is fit to 

"That will be a good plan," she replied. 
" That will relieve me." 

" Then you do not nurse as a profession ? " 
I said. 

" Not now. But I was glad to nurse the 
Englishman, for he will pay me well." 

" Is not your husband well off? " 

" Oh, yes, and I have plenty to do at 
home — still, the news that an Englishman 
was sick unto death drew me to his side." 

" Have you children ? " I asked. 

She looked hard at me ; her black, piercing 
eyes seemed to read me through. 

" No," she said ; then abruptly turned 

" It is very kind of you to trouble to show 
me this place," I continued, after a pause. 

" I am pleased to help you," she answered ; 
" you seem good and strong. I don't care 
for goodness, but I have a great respect for 

I made no answer to this, and soon after- 
wards we returned to the hotel. I noticed 
that she said nothing more with regard to my 
request to see the kerosene works, but the 
next day when I alluded to the subject I 
found that she had not forgotten my wish. 

" I have arranged everything," she said ; 
" your patient is better — you need not fear to 
leave him. You can spend an interesting day. 
It is impossible, of course, for me to accom- 
pany you ; but I have a friend- — a young girl- — 
who lives with me in my home. My home 
is not here, but five miles distant, just on 
the borders of the great kerosene works. I 
have asked my friend to meet you there. 
She speaks "very little English, but she is 
a good French scholar — you understand 
French, do you not ? " 

" I can speak French, of course," I 

" Oh, then, that is excellent. There is a 
Swede here who speaks French. He will 
drive you straight to the works of the 
Brothers Nobel. Doubtless, after you have 
seen them, you would like to go on to the 
great feature of this place." 

" What is that ? " I asked. 

" The Eternal Fires — they are wonderful ! 
No one ousrht to come as far as Bakou 

3 8S 


without seeing them. Now go — your patient 
is in my charge — have a pleasant day." 

She waved her hand to me in a somewhat 
theatrical style, and I left her. 

Half an hour afterwards, I was driving in 
one of the queer native carriages in the direc- 
tion of the great refining works of Nobel 
Brothers. My driver, who was also to act as 
my interpreter, understood a few words of 
the French language. The country over 
which we went was extremely desolate. After 
driving about five miles, I saw in the distance 
a hill, crowned with many tall, black, pyramid- 
shaped objects, looking something like a pine 
forest. As we came nearer I quickly dis- 
covered what they really were — numberless 
chimneys, out of which the liquid naphtha 
was rising, sometimes to the height of two or 
three hundred feet into the air. Fru Nehber 
was evidently in- 
clined to be kind 
to me, and had 
left no stone un- 
turned to provide 
for my comfort. 
When I arrived 
at the works, I 
was met by her 
h u s b a n d — a n 
elderly man, with 
a great white 
beard and heavy 

He took me 
all over the kero- 
sene works, gave 
me a carefully- 
prepared meal, 
and showed me 
every attention. 
It was late in the 
aft e r n o o n — 
almost evening 
— when I parted 
from him. 

" By the way," 
I said, suddenly, 
" your wife told 
me that I should 
meet a young 
French lady 

"Oh," he an- 
swered, with a 
start ; " she al- 
ludes, of course, 
to Felicia La 
Touche, a girl 
who has been 


staying with us for some time ; she is away 
to-day : important business called her sud- 
denly from home." 

I noticed as he spoke that, simple as his 
words were, a look of irritation and annoy- 
ance crossed his face. 

" My wife is a peculiar woman," he said, 
slowly ; " she takes whims, Monsieur le 
Docteur, and sometimes those who are with 
her suffer, but Felicia means well. I pre- 
sume, sir," he added, breaking off abruptly, 
"that you are now about to visit the old 
Temple of the Fire Worshippers ? " 

"That is my intention," I replied. " It i? 
surely w r orth seeing ? : ' 

" It is. The fires at night make a weird and 

fantastic spectacle. I will now say farewell." 

He shook hands with me as he spoke, and 

a few moments later I was continuing my 

drive. The dis- 
tance from the 
kerosene works 
to the Fire Wor- 
shippers' Temple 
was a matter of 
about twelve 
miles. The sun 
was now sinking 
beneath the hori- 
zon, and a night 
of great darkness 
was ushered in. 

The road was 
of the roughest, 
and I quickly 
perceived the ad- 
visability of using 
the queer car- 
riages built of 
withies, with their 
very high and 
slender wheels — 
the wheels could 
sink deep into 
the sand, and 
their height kept 
the travellers at 
a respectful dis- 
tance from the 
choking dust. We 
had gone some 
distance when I 
suddenly saw on 
the horizon what 
looked like long, 
low, white walls ; 
in short, what 
seemed to be the 
inclosure of an 



Eastern city. I asked my guide what these 
walls were, and he informed me with a nod 
that they were the white walls which sur- 
rounded the old Hindu Temple of the 
Fire Worshippers. 

As we came nearer, little tongues of fire 
shot out of the ground at short intervals — 
they rose from a foot to two feet high, spout- 
ing up suddenly, and then dying away. Our 
horse, a very strong animal, was evidently 
accustomed to this subterranean burning, 
and was not in the least alarmed, moving 
quietly aside when the fire sprang up directly 
in his path. My guide and charioteer drove 
with care — he was now absolutely silent — I 
also sat quiet, musing on the strangeness 
of my present situation, wondering if an 
adventure were before me, and if it was 
really to be my happy lot to rescue Mr. 
Cavendish's long-lost son. 

By-and-by we reached the white walls — my 
guide jumped down from his driver's seat, 
and pulled a bell. The custodian of the 
deserted temple — for the fire-worshipping had 
long ago been given up — now appeared. 
He held a lantern in his hand, which 
lit up his weird and wrinkled face. He was 
dressed in the garb of a Russian soldier, 
and took care quickly to inform me, my 
driver acting as interpreter, that he was one 
hundred and nine years of age.* 

We soon found ourselves in a large 
courtyard, surrounded by very broad and 
fairly high walls. Piercing these walls at 
regular intervals were small doorways, which 
I discovered led into low, dark rooms. In 
these rooms the monks used to live. The 
centre of the court w r as occupied by a 
building raised on thick pillars. This was 
doubtless the ancient temple. On one side of 
the surrounding walls rose a heavy, square 
building, surmounted by two low towers. 
Out of each of these ascended now high 
columns of flame, lighting up the entire place, 
and giving it a most strange and weird 
appearance. The flames rose to several 
hundreds of feet, and shot up clear and steady 
into the night air. My guide, having tied up 
the horse outside, quickly joined us and 
began to interpret as well as he could 
the old custodian's remarks, but his know- 
ledge of any language but his own was 
extremely slight, and the scene spoke for 
itself. I soon left the guide and custo- 
dian, and walking across the court, began 
to make investigations on my own account. 
The men stood together, talking in low tones 
just where the light fell f ully upon them, but 

* A fact. 

behind the temple in the middle of the 
court there was deep shadow. I had just 
approached this shadow when I was startled 
by the touch of a light hand on my arm — 
I turned quickly, and saw a girl standing by 
my side. 

"I have been expecting you," she said; " I 
have been hoping you would come — you are 
the English doctor, are you not ? " 

" I am a doctor," I replied, " and who are 
you ? " 

" Felicia La Touche — oh, I know Fru 
Nehber will kill me, but I don't care — I 
have waited for you here all day, when I 
heard you were coming; I brought the 
boy here on purpose. Oh, he is ill, 
very ill — he will die if something is not 
soon done. My God, I can't stand it any 
longer — his cries, and the way he wails for 
his father ! I think his mind must be 
wandering a little — he thinks that his father 
is coming to him — he has been thinking so 
all day. Oh, can you do anything — can you 
save him ? " 

" One moment first," I said. " What is the 
boy's name ? " 

She clasped her hands together with some 
violence — her agitation was extreme. 

" He is an English boy," she said ; " Mal- 
colm Cavendish. I helped to kidnap him a 
couple of months ago. Oh ! how wretched 
I have been ever since ! But this is not the 
time for me to talk of my own feelings. 
Come ; come at once. Oh, you may save 
him yet ! " 

As she spoke she pulled me forward — she 
was a young girl, and very pretty, but her 
fair face was now absolutely distorted with 
misery and terror. She opened a door in 
one of the walls, and the next moment I 
found myself in a tiny room in which I 
could scarcely stand upright. 

" Here I am, Malcolm," said the girl ; " I 
have brought a good doctor to see you." 

" I don't want any light, Felicia," was the 
strange reply. " When my eyes are shut, I 
can see father — I know he is coming to 
me. Don't bring a light, I shall see the 
horrible faces, and all the queer things, if you 
do — let me be, I am quite happy in the 

" You must bear the light ; you will be 
better soon," she replied. 

She struck a match, held it to a candle in 
a swing lantern, and motioned me to come 
forward. A boy was lying stretched out flat 
on the ground at one end of the Fire Wor- 
shippers' cell ; a rough sackcloth covered 
him — a bundle of the same was placed under 




his head — his face was very white and thin — 
his big, dark eyes, which were looking up 
eagerly, had an unmistakable pathos in them 
which stabbed me to the very heart. 

" Who are you ? " he said, half sitting up, 
and gazing at me in a kind of terror. " Are 
you — is it true — are you father ? " 

"No, my boy," I replied, "but I know 
your father, and I have come to take you to 
him. Fear nothing now that I have come." 

" Oh, take him, take him away," said 
Felicia, " take him at once. I don't care if 
I die afterwards, if only his life is saved. He 
is so sweet — such a dear boy — he has been 
so brave — he has kept up his courage through 
so much. I don't mind giving up my life for 
him. Take him away— take him away." 

The boy lay back exhausted on his rough 
pillow. The relief of seeing me and of 
hearing my voice was evidently great, but he 
was too weai tor the least exertion. The 
atmosphere of the wretched little cell was 
terribly oppressive, and I thought that he 
might revive in the open air. 

I lifted him in my arms and took him 

"You are very brave," I said, looking down 
at the French girl. "This boy's father will 
thank you for what you have done some 

" No," she answered ; " I shall die — she 
will kill me — you don't know what her 
powers of revenge are ; but, never mind — 
never mind ; take him and go." 

he would frustrate me 
go before it is known. 

" I will take him," 
I said ; " there is 
a carriage outside, 
and he shall return 
with me to Bakou 
to-night, but I can- 
not leave you in 
extreme peril. Can 
I do anything for 
you ? " 

"It does not 
matter about me— 
take him away, go." 

She was evidently 
beside herself with 
terror and anxiety. 

" Why are you 
delaying ? " she 
said, stamping one 
of her feet. " Herr 
Nehber is a good 
man ; but, listen — 
he is afraid of his 
wife. If he knew 
what I am doing, 
take the boy and go — 
I have been waiting 

for you here all day long. I feared beyond 
words that you would be prevented coming. 
The man who drove you here is a friend 
of mine ; he will take you safely back to 
Bakou. Stay, I will speak to him." 

She left me and ran quickly across the 
court — the boy lay in my arms half-fainting — 
weighted with such a burden, I was obliged 
to follow her slowly. 

"It is all right," she said, when I came up; 
" my friend will take you safely to Bakou. 
He is glad — I think we are all glad — to know 
that the English boy has a chance of escape. 
Don't fret about me — old Ivan will take care 
of me, and there are hiding-places here. 
Good-bye, Malcolm ; get well, be happy, and 
don't forget Felicia." 

She flung her arms round the boy's neck, 
pressed a quick kiss on his forehead, and the 
next moment had vanished into the great 
shadow and was lost to view. 

It was past midnight when I found myself 
back again at the Hotel Metropole. I had 
thought much during that drive, and resolved 
by a bold stroke to take the lad right into the 
enemy's camp. In such an extremity as mine 
only great daring could win the day. I 
resolved for the sake of the boy to brave 
much. I would meet this terrible Fru Nehber 
on her own grounds. I felt, however, that 
the odds were against me. As far as I could 
tell, I was the only Englishman in the place. 


39 1 

I was mistaken. The first person I saw when 
I entered the courtyard was a tall traveller 
bearing the unmistakable air and dress of my 
own country. 

" You speak English ? " I said, the moment 
my eye met his. 

" Yes," he replied, coming forward ; " can 
I do anything for you ? " 

" Have you taken a room here ? " 

" Yes." 

" This boy is ill — he is an English boy. I 
have just rescued him from a most terrible 
situation. May I take him straight to your 
room ? I can't explain anything now, but 
the case is critical." 

" I will help you, of course," he said ; 
" my room is at your service." 

" May I rely on you to watch the boy, and 
not to leave him a moment by himself until 
I go to him ? " 

" I will do all in my power." 

I placed the lad in his arms and ran up- 
stairs at once. Almost to my relief, for I 
was anxious to get the crisis over, I saw Fru 
Nehber waiting for me in the long gallery 
which led direct from my room to that occu- 
pied by General Morgan. 

" I hope you have had a pleasant day, Dr. 
Halifax," she said, coming forward, and speak- 
ing in that low, rather monotonous, voice, 
which was one of her peculiarities. 

" I have had an exciting one," I replied. 
" Can I speak to you for a moment ? " 

I saw her brow darken, and a peculiar 
expression fill her dark eyes — -she swept on 
before me with the bearing of a queen, 
entered the salon which led into General 
Morgan's bedroom, and then turned and 
faced me. 

"Will you eat first," she said. " I have had 
supper prepared for you here ; or will you tell 
me your adventures ? " 

" I will tell you my adventures," I answered. 
" I visited the Fire Worshippers to-night." 

" Ah ! " she said. " The effect of the fire 
rising straight up out of the earth is fine at 
midnight, is it not ? " 

" It is weird," I replied, " weird and 
terrible — the place is the sort of place where 
a crime might be committed." 

" My God, yes," she said, slightly moisten- 
ing her lips. 

" I was just in time to prevent one," I 
said, giving her a steady glance. 

She did not reply — her arms fell to her 

sides ; she advanced a step to meet me, and 
flung back her head. 

" Yes," she said, after a very long pause, 
"you prevented a crime ! That is interest- 
ing ; of what nature was the crime ? " 

" You will know all that you need know," 
I replied, " when I tell you that Malcolm 
Cavendish is at present in this house, under 
the care of an English gentleman, who will 
effectually guard him, and prevent your 
kidnapping him again. I know all, Fru 
Nehber. I know who you are, and what you 
have done. Had I not gone to the Fire 
Worshippers to-night, you would have had that 
boy's blood on your head ; as it is, I believe 
he can be saved. You are aware, of course, 
what a grave crime you have committed ; 
even in Russia such a crime would not be 
tolerated. You have failed in your object, 
for the boy will live, and it will be my happy 
task to restore him to his father." 

" You can have him," she said, suddenly. 
" I do not wish you to lodge a complaint 
against me with the authorities." 

" I will certainly do so, if you do not 
leave this hotel immediately." 

" I will go," she said. " When I saw 
you yesterday, I had a premonition that you 
would defeat me." 
■ " You thought that I suspected you ? " 

" I had a premonition. Do you know Mr. 
Cavendish ? " 

" Yes." 

She was silent again, and walked to the 

" I have lived so long in this world," she 
said, suddenly, " that the unexpected never 
astonishes me. I have tasted some of the 
sweets of revenge, but you have thwarted 
me, and for the time being I acknowledge 
that I am powerless. Take the boy back to 
his father ; but take also a message from me. 
Tell Mr. Cavendish that I bide my time, 
and that I never forget." 

With these last words she abruptly left the 
room. I never saw her again. 

The boy had a bad illness, and my stay at 
Bakou had to be indefinitely prolonged, but 
when Cavendish and MacPherson arrived, 
matters became far easier for me, and in the 
end I had the satisfaction of bringing back 
two convalescents to England. The boy is 
now quite well, and his father has long 
recovered his mental equilibrium, but I do 
not know anything about the fate of Felicia. 

Divers and Their Work. 

By Framley Steelcroft. 

S a rule, scientific mechanism 
eliminates the romantic and 
picturesque element from every 
calling into which it is intro- 
duced ; an exception to this 
rule, however, is the art of 
diving, whose scope has merely been widened 
with the invention of elaborate appliances. 
To trace the history of diving is, colloquially 
speaking, " a large order." If memory serve, 
Homer compares the fall of Hector's 
charioteer to the action of a diver; and 
specially trained men were employed in 
subaqueous work during the siege of Syra- 
cuse, their mission being to laboriously 
scuttle the enemy's vessels. 

The accompanying illustration is from an 
old print, dated 151 1. On seeing this for 
the first time, we instantly realized that the 
inception of scientific diving was due to the 
action of an elephant when crossing a deep 
river; for we remembered an exceedingly 
uncomfortable quarter of an hour we spent 
with a truculent bull 
elephant, on whose 
back we crossed the 
Ganges below Be- 
nares. Notwithstand- 
ing the touching tra- 
ditions of his kind, 
this particular brute 
disregarded our com- 
mands and caresses, 
and swam or walked 
beneath the water, 
breathing through his 
elevated trunk, with 
the result that we were 
drenched with evil- 
smelling water. 

The London head- 
quarters of diving, and 
sub - aqueous work 
generally, is in the 
Westminster Bridge 
Road. Wedged in 
between a baker's 
shop and a cheap 
clothing emporium is 
the modest approach 
to the immense estab- 
lishment of Messrs. 
Siebe and Gorman, 
without doubt the 
greatest submarine 
engineers in the 

From an] 


world. Hundreds of diving suits are made 
here annually for the nations of the world ; 
and in one huge room is a deep tank wherein 
divers are trained. 

The modern diving dress was invented in 
1839 by Mr. Augustus Siebe, the founder of 
the above firm, whose divers were at that 
time engaged on the wreck of the Royal 
George. It is made of solid sheet india- 
rubber covered on both sides with tanned 
twill ; it has a double collar, the inner one to 
pull up round the neck, and the outer 
one of red india-rubber to go over the 
breast-plate and form a water-tight joint. 
The helmet is of tinned copper, and 
has a segment bayonet screw at the 
neck, corresponding with that of the breast- 
plate, so that it can be removed from 
the latter by one-eighth of a turn. The 
helmet itself, as may be seen in the illustra- 
tion reproduced on the next page, has a 
circular glass panel protected by guards in 
the front and two oval panels at the sides. 
With its twenty-five 
candle-power electric 
lamp, its telephone, 
and perfect system of 
air supply, it is ob- 
viously a vast improve- 
ment on the first 
diver's helmet made, 
which is also shown ; 
this latter helmet dates 
from 1829. The air- 
pipes are in lengths of 
from 30ft. to 60ft, and 
are made of vul- 
canized indiarubber 
and canvas, stiffened 
with steel wire. By 
means of the air- 
pump, air can be 
compressed to a pres- 
sure of 2401b. per 
square inch. 

The dress of a fully 
equipped diver weighs 
i69^1b., and costs 
about ;£ioo. First of 
all comes 8^1b. of 
thick underclothing ; 
then follow the dress 
itself, weighing 141b. ; 
boots, 321b. — mon- 
strous things with 
leaden soles ; breast 



From a] 

and back weights, 
8olb. ; and, lastly, the 
helmet, which weighs 
35lb. The moment 
the latter is screwed 
on, the air - pumps 
commence working, 
and the diver receives 
a pat on the helmet to 
intimate that he may 
descend with safety. 

The first illustra- 
tion on the next page 
not only shows a fully 
equipped diver and 
his attendants, but is 
the more interesting 
in that the scene de- 
picted is the deck of 
the Camperdown im- 
mediately after that 
battleship had ram- 
med her consort, 
the ill-fated Victoria ; 
the photograph was 
taken on board the 
Camperdown. We should mention that 
the Admiralty adopted the diving dress 
fully thirty years ago ; and, as time went on, 
the apparatus became more generally used 
throughout the service, until at the present 
day every flagship carries eight fully qualified 
divers, and every cruiser four. Among the 
principal duties of a diver in the Royal Navy 
are the repairing of any 
damage sustained by 
the vessel below the 
water-line, either by 
accident or during 
warfare ; clearing the 
propellers in the event 
of their being fouled 
by wreckage; the re- 
covery of anchors and 
chains which may be 
lost overboard, and the 
removal from the ship's 
bottom of sea-weed and 
other accumulations 
which tend to retard 
the speed. 

We may mention in 
this connection that 
Messrs. Siebe and Gor- 
man were commis- 
sioned to clean the hull 
of the Great Eastern 
while that monstrous 
vessel was being loaded 

Vol. x.— 50 




From a Photograph. 

with the cable for 
the Indian submarine 
telegraph. The con- 
tract price for the 
work was ^1,800, 
and it was completed 
in six weeks by twelve 
divers. After the 
cleaning, the Great 
Eastern lifted fully 
two inches in the 
water, and her speed 
increased by three 
knots an hour. Nor 
is this surprising in 
view of the fact that 
the incrustations were 
more than a foot 

A practised diver 
can work from four to 
seven hours daily 
below the bottom of 
a vessel, and can 
clean from seven to 
fifteen square yards 
per hour, according to the condition of the 
bottom. The instruments used in this work 
are : a couch-grass brush, a brush made of 
brass wire, a deck mop weighted with lead, 
and an iron scraper. The diver also takes 
with him a hanging stage or step, which is 
hooked on to a rope ladder beneath the keel, 
and on which he sits while at work. Incredible 
as it may seem, it is 
nevertheless a fact that 
deep-sea divers occa- 
sionally have a quiet 
nap far beneath the 
surface ; and surely no 
more convincing testi- 
mony to the perfection 
of modern diving ap- 
pliances could be ad- 
duced. One man was 
cleaning a ship's hull 
when he resolved to 
"knock off" and go to 
sleep seated on his step. 
He forgot, however, to 
secure his couch-grass 
brush to his wrist. Con- 
sequently, the moment 
the tired diver obeyed 
one law of Nature and 
fell asleep, his brush 
obeyed another law, and 
sped swiftly to the sur- 
face. The brush was 




From a Photo, by W. Gregory & Co. 

seen by the officer on duty on the vessel ; 
the somnolent diver was awakened with no 
little difficulty, and, after having irretrievably 
committed himself in a telephonic alterca- 
tion with his superior, he was called up and 

Another diver, engaged on a wreck, once 
went down with the sole intention of sleeping 
away a few hours. This man, on reaching 
the bottom, lashed his air-pipe and life-line to 
a spar, and then settled himself to sleep on a 
rock. After a time his attendant noticed 
that the life-line showed no movement, so he 
gave two pulls on it to signify, " Are you all 
right ? " Not only was no reply received, 
but it was found impossible to draw the diver 
to the surface. After an anxious interval, a 
second diver was sent down, and the wrath 
of this man on seeing his comrade asleep 
may be better imagined than described. 

We give here a portrait of Mr. W. A. 
Gorman, one of the greatest living experts in 

diving, and the present head 
of the Westminster firm. 
According to this gentleman, 
the greatest depth at which 
a diver may safely work is 
1 50ft. One of Mr. Gorman's 
men, however, has descen- 
ded into 204ft. of water, at 
which depth the daring man 
sustained a pressure of 
88^ lb. on every square 
inch of his body. Strangely 
enough, the coming up is 
even more dangerous than 
the descent, owing to the 
rush of blood to the head 
when the pressure on the 
brain is removed. The most 
experienced diver rarely 
ascends from great depths 
faster than 2ft. per second, 
nor does he take any food 
for at least two hours before 
commencing operations. In 
short, divers are picked men 
in every sense of the word, 
and have to undergo a 
searching medical examina- 
tion before being trained. 

It is decidedly interest- 
ing to watch a diver being 
dressed. First of all, he 
removes his own clothes, 


From a Photo, by T. Bennett <£ Sons, Worcester. 



and puts on a surprising quantity of under- 
clothing — stockings, guernseys, and the like. 
Then comes the woollen cap, and, if the 
diver be venturing very deep, a crinoline, 
which serves to relieve the pressure of 
water. The shoulder-pad is then put on, 
after which the attendants literally force the 
diver into the dress itself. Outside stockings 
are worn, also a canvas overall to protect the 
dress. The diver presently steps on to the 
ladder, and two men are told off to man the 
pump ; the weights are then put on, and 
finally the centre bull's-eye of the helmet 
is screwed in, after which the submarine 
explorer disappears beneath the surface. 

well, the diver gives an answering pull to 
reassure those above. Two pulls on the air- 
pipe mean " More air " (pump faster), and 
so on throughout the code. It would be 
difficult to find steadier or more trustworthy 
men than divers' attendants ; this is as it 
should be, for they literally hold in their hands 
the lives of the subaqueous workers. 

There is at Chatham a school of submarine 
mining, the Royal Engineers having adopted 
the diving apparatus about twenty-seven 
years ago ; and we reproduce here a group 
of the stalwart pupils thereof. Behind the 
air-pump in the middle is seen Quarter- 
master-Sergeant White, R.E., the diving 

From a Photo, by] 


[E. Sharp & Co. 

At one time divers under water used to 
walk backwards, lest they should collide with 
something and break the glass panel of the 
helmet. Modern invention, however, has 
obviated this inconvenience. A guide-line is 
carried, in order that the diver may retrace 
his steps without entangling his air-pipe 
or life-line. Although a telephone for deep 
water divers has been invented, together with 
a speaking apparatus for men at a depth of 
6oft., the signal code is still in force, and con- 
stant communication is maintained between 
the-men below and their attendants. Should, 
the latter give one pull on the life-line, it 
signifies, " How are you getting on ? " If all is 

instructor. When fully qualified, the men 
are engaged in laying torpedoes and harbour 
defence generally. By the way, the Royal 
Engineers' diving school owes much to 
Colonel Fraser and General Lennox, V.C., 
who were mainly instrumental in establishing 
it. The former officer descended to a depth 
of 90ft. the first time he used the dress. 
Each harbour is now provided with two 
trained divers (Royal Engineers) and a com- 
plete set of apparatus. 

Mr. White was good enough to send us 
certain details connected with his queer 
academy. The subjects taught are as follows : 
Taking the pump to pieces ; attendance on 



diver; examining moorings ; finding a buoyed 
anchor ; sending and receiving " Morse " on 
a life-line ; and placing charges round a 
wreck. Altogether, the course of training 
lasts two months ; and sixteen men were fully 
trained last year. Most of these divers can 
work dy 2 hours in from 35ft. to 50ft. of 
water. The Duke of Connaught himself, 
when training at Chatham some years ago, 
descended to a depth of 30ft., and enjoyed 
the novelty of his situation so much, that it 
was with difficulty he was prevailed upon to 
come up. 

The new-comer to this school is first dressed 
in a complete diving suit, with the exception 
of the front and back weights. When the 
bull's-eye of the helmet is screwed on and the 
air-pumps commence working, the pupil is 
allowed to sit down for a few minutes to gain 
confidence — for it is a ticklish business, this 
penetrating into " the dark, unfathomed caves 
of ocean," particularly if the mission be to 
lay charges of gun-cotton. Each man at the 
Chatham Submarine School is a volunteer 
for the work, and commences operations in 
1 oft. of water. 

Divers for the Navy are trained at Sheer- 
ness, and are allowed a course of thirty-two 
working days ; in the training school, each 

From a Photo, by R. Hider, Sheernsss. 


From a Photo, bg Robinson, Landport. 

class is limited to twenty-five men. The 
work consists in recovering articles lost, and 
slinging them in such a manner that they can 
be easily hauled up ; cleaning and coppering 
ships' bottoms, cleaning propellers, and 
communicating by slate and voice. We are 
assured by Mr. Deighton, the instructor at 
Sheerness (whose portrait we give), that a 
diver generally looks the healthiest of the 
seamen. When sufficiently trained to be 
able to work at a depth of 120ft., seamen 
divers are considered fully qualified, and are 
drafted to various ships. It would appear 
that diving is quite an important branch of 
work in the Navy. Lieutenants who qualify 
for gunnery and torpedo work go through a 
course of from ten to twenty days' training 
in diving, descending to a depth of 60ft. All 
gunners become more or less skilful divers 
on attaining warrant rank, and qualify either 
at Devonport or at Portsmouth, where they 
are trained by Mr. H. Stevens, R.N., to 
whom we are indebted for these details, and 
whose portrait also appears on this page. 

About fifteen years ago Mr. Gorman was 
approached by a French engineer, named 
Carmagole, who exultingly declared he had 
invented a diving dress in which an expert 
man could work at a depth of 300ft, or even 
more. Mr. Gorman, who is nothing if not 
enterprising, resolved to test the value of the 
invention, which turned out to be a diving 



suit of planished steel, with lobster-like joints. 
This suit was made in twelve months by a 
celebrated Paris armourer at a cost of jQ6oo. 
On its completion, Mr. Gorman hired a special 
steamer at Marseilles and journeyed out some 
forty or fifty miles into the Mediterranean, 
accompanied by one diver. The latter upset 
all calculations, however, for at the last 
moment he refused to go down in the new 
dress, urging, tardily enough, that he had a 
wife and family dependent upon him. 

In order that the costly experiment might 
not be wholly fruitless, Mr. Gorman resolved 
to send the dress down empty. It was 
accordingly put together with great care, 
and lowered 300ft. into the sea. After a 
quarter of an hour's im- 
mersion, the strange- 
looking dummy diver 
was hauled up, where- 
upon it was found that 
no water had entered, 
notwithstanding the 
prodigious pressure at so 
great a depth. 

Few people, we ven- 
ture to say, have heard 
of the wreck-destroying 
department of Trinity 
House, as conducted by 
the chief diver, Mr. 
Alexander Sutherland, 
whose photograph we 
reproduce, and who re- 
ceives instructions from 
the head stores at Black- 
wall. When a wreck 
takes place on our coast, 
the Trinity House au- 
thorities at once dis- 
patch a vessel to the 
scene of the disaster. 
This vessel is moored 
close to the wreck, and displays a green flag in 
the day-time, and burns a brilliant light at night, 
as a warning to passing vessels to keep clear. 
Wooden ships that were wrecked used to go 
to pieces very quickly ; there are now so 
many iron vessels, however, that when one is 
sunk, it is necessary to use some expeditious 
mode of destroying it. The Trinity House 
staff of " wreckers " numbers about thirty 
men, and includes two divers and their 
attendants, or signalmen. 

All the Trinity House depots on the coast 
are in communication with the head-quarters 
at Tower Hill. The official tender, dis- 
patched on wreck-destroying missions, is 
equipped with diving apparatus, cables, 


From a Photo, by 

batteries, fuses, and a large quantity of gun- 
cotton. Mr. Sutherland estimates that he 
destroys from fifteen to twenty vessels every 
year. One of his recent jobs was a cargo 
steamer sunk off Dover in about five fathoms. 
This vessel lay in a particularly awkward 
position; its destruction took three or four 
weeks, and necessitated the use of nearly 
4,ooolb. of gun-cotton. Our informant 
(Sutherland himself) points out that not only 
does he run the risk of an ill-timed explosion, 
but his work as a professional diver is rendered 
peculiarly dangerous by reason of the loose 
spars and cordage of the wreck, which may 
entangle his air-pipe or life-line, and render 
him a prisoner at the bottom of the sea. We 
may mention that even 
the heavily weighted 
diver finds it rather dif- 
ficult at times to main- 
tain an upright position. 
Men diving at a depth 
of ten fathoms and more 
are cautioned not to 
keep their heads down 
for more than fifteen 
seconds at a time, lest 
the air should accumu- 
late in the dress and 
cause them to glide 
upwards against their 
will. Should this occur, 
the diver opens the 
regulating cock in front 
of his helmet, signalling 
at the same time for 
"less air." 

During the summer 
of 1842, a corporal and 
twenty-three of the rank 
and file of the Royal 
Sappers and Miners, in 
addition to nine men of 
the East India Company's sappers, were em- 
ployed at Spithead, under Major-General Sir 
C. Pasley and the late Mr. A. Siebe, in the 
removal of the wreck of the Royal George. 
The operations were carried on incessantly 
from the 7th of May till the end of October. 
It is impossible to adequately describe in this 
article the difficulty of this prodigious task, 
which was sporadically carried on for several 
years. The divers not only worked at a great 
depth and with a flowing tide, but the actual 
scene of their labours was covered with thick 
mud, in which were embedded large timbers 
and guns, iron and shingle ballast, and a 
thousand other obstacles. 

In Mr. Gorman's cosy office at West- 


W. Bartier, Poplar. 



crane and pene- 
trated the 40ft. of 
water. One of the 
most successful 
operations in the 
way of" ship-raising 
was the floating of 
H.M.S. Howe, 
which struck on a 
rock off Ferrol. 
The work was 
undertaken by the 
Neptune Salvage 
Company, of 
Stockholm, pre- 
sumably because 
English enterprise 
fought shy of it. 
The Admiralty 
placed all the plant 
they could at the 
disposal of the 
company, and Mr. 
Gorman contributed the submarine search- 
lights and diving dresses. 

The method adopted was at once simple 
and efficacious. The rock that had pene- 
trated the battleship's bottom was blown 


From a Photograph. 

minster may be seen a veritable museum of 
interesting objects, mostly recovered from the 
deep sea. We have spoken of the removal of 
the Royal George. Here is shown Admiral 
Kempenfeldt's sword together with a silver 
plate taken from his cabin. The 
ornamental vase seen in the next 
illustration is fashioned from the 
timbers and metal of the Royal 
George; while the relics grouped 
upon it were all found by the divers. 
They speak for themselves. Look- 
at the old clay pipe, once the com- 
fort of some doomed sailor ; the cup 
and spoon from Kempenfeldt's cabin ; 
the old boot and pistol, and the silk 
handkerchief on top of all, none the 
worse for its eighty-four years' im- 

The magnitude of this subject is 
such that we can give but the briefest 
description of harbour works. During 
the construction of the breakwater at 
Libau, in Russia, no fewer than thirty 
divers were employed ; Messrs. Siebe 
and Gorman having sent two of their 
own expert men to teach twenty-eight 
Russian masons how to manipulate 
blocks of fifty tons at the bottom of 
the sea. This important work took 
four years, half of the divers working 
by day, and the other half by night. 
This latter gang used submarine elec- 
tric lamps, and were also assisted by 
a powerful electric lamp of enormous 
size, which depended from a Titan 





away ; a platform was built over the damaged 
portion, and the Howe was then pumped and 
floated. Eight divers were employed, and so 
thoroughly did they do their work that the 
great vessel lay at anchor some time before 
being docked for thorough repairs. The 
salvors of the Sultan built up the inside of 
the ship with bricks and concrete, and then 
used the platform. The whole of this work 
took but six weeks. 

The pay of divers varies according to the 
nature of the work. On big salvage jobs 
the men receive a standing wage and main- 
tenance, together with a percentage on 
the value recovered. 
While engaged on the 
Libau breakwater, Mr. 
Gorman's chief diver, 
Murphy, signed a five 
years' agreement on 
the following terms : 
he was to receive 
^350 a year, with a 
house and mainten- 
ance ; and he even- 
tually got a bonus of 
^"600. Which ex- 
plains that while the 
cabmen complain of 
unfair treatment, and 
the boot operatives 
petulantly neglect 
their soles, "Brer 
Diver, he lay low." 
Talking of Murphy, 
though, it must be 
said that he kept his 
big gang of Russians 
hard at it, and from 
time to time descen- 
ded upon them, in a 
literal as well as in a 
metaphorical sense. 
Experienced English 
divers employed on 

foreign harbours and pier, dock, and bridge 
contracts get from ^20 to ^30 a month. 
For similar work in this country the pay is 
from 2s. 6d. to 3s. 6d. per hour ; but from 5s. 
to 1 os. per hour is paid for well and colliery 

This brings us to an extraordinary phase 
of the diver's occupation, namely, working 
for hours in irrespirable gases. The "diver" 
shown in our photograph is provided with the 
Fleuss apparatus, which is self-contained and 
entirely independent of any communication 
with the outer atmosphere, thus enabling the 
wearer to breathe with safety in the most 


From a Photo, by 

deadly gases, and to explore the most 
intricate turnings of a mine with perfect 
freedom of action. The principle of the 
apparatus is that the wearer breathes the 
same air over and over again, the carbonic 
acid being absorbed from it after each expira- 
tion, and at the same time the requisite 
amount of oxygen restored to it. 

The apparatus consists of a strong copper 
cylinder, i2in. long and 6^in. in diameter, 
with domed ends, and capable of containing 
four cubic feet of oxygen, at sixteen 
atmospheres pressure ; the man carries this 
cylinder on his back, and its contents are 
sufficient for four 
hours' respiration. 
Above it is the car- 
bonic acid filter — a 
square metal box 
fitted with cubes of 
india-rubber sponge 
saturated with a thick 
pasty solution of 
caustic soda. In front 
of the diver (as may 
be seen in our illus- 
tration) is a flat bag 
of vulcanized india- 
rubber, measuring 
15m. by I2in. ; into 
this passes the ex- 
haled air from the 
filter, and the bag is 
also connected with 
the oxygen -chamber 
at the back by a 
second pipe. The 
mask is made to fit 
air-tight to the face 
of the wearer, and is 
held in position by 
straps buckled at the 
back of the head. 
When venturing into 
certain gases and 
blinding smoke, the diver is further provided 
with a band of rubber, which covers his ears, 
and glass lenses for the eyes. The whole 
apparatus weighs but 261b., costs £i&, and 
can be adjusted in a few seconds. 

The inventor, Mr. Fleuss, is at all times 
ready to test the apparatus. He has remained 
for hours in the densest smoke, and also in 
a glass chamber charged with carbonic acid. 
His invention was for a long time used 
regularly at the Westminster Aquarium ; but 
to come to matters more practical, the 
apparatus was recently the means of saving 
ten lives at the Killingworth Colliery, and it 

E. Sharp & Co. 



was also used at 
the re-opening of 
the Maudlin seam 
of the Seaham 
Colliery, after the 
fatal explosion of 
September, 1880. 
We believe this 
breathing mach- 
ine is constantly 
kept at Seaham ; 
the men were 
nervous at first, 
though, and, in 
order to coach 
them in the use 
of the apparatus, 
the authorities 
rigged up, as a 
training school, a 
wooden building, 
which they perio- 
dically filled with 
sulphurous fumes 
of a sufficiently choking kind. 

The submarine electric lamps made for the 
Admiralty for torpedo work are of 1,500 
candle-power. These powerful lamps attract 
myriads of curious fish — curious in the double 
sense of the term. In certain waters these fish 
become a nuisance, and the diver has some- 
times to eject paraffin oil into the water round 
the lamp, in order that the vicinity may be 
rendered disagree- 
able to piscatorial 
prowlers. Somewhat 
similarly, a diver 
wearing a bright 
new helmet is as 
much an object of 
attention "down 
below " as an Orien- 
tal potentate in full 

panoply would be if he walked down the 

We reproduce on this page a picture of 
a Greek lamp which was found off the coast 
of Syra, and which is supposed to date from 


From a Photograph. 


From a Photograph. 


From a Photo, by Gf. F. Hewitt, Weymouth. 

the year 300 b.c. It will be seen that a 
sponge was growing from the lip. We also 
show a group of articles — Greek vessels, etc. 
— recovered from a submerged island in the 
Greek Archipelago. These interesting relics 
were brought up by Mr. Gorman's divers, and 
are at present in the museum of that jovial 
gentleman's office. 

We asked the diver whose portrait we 
reproduce (Abe Palmer) how he came to 
adopt so strange a calling; his reply was a 
little inconsequent, for he merely said he was 
always fond of swimming. It was most in- 
teresting to converse with this daring and reso- 
lute man, who spoke so quietly and twirled 
his hat in his hands. Divers, we should men- 
tion, are classified into various heads, which 
are further sub- 
divided into trades. 
Palmer may be de- 
scribed as a " fresh- 
water man," with a 
pronounced anti- 
pathy to wells. Pal- 
mer loathes work- 
ing in a well. Four 
years ago he was 
working in a well 
180ft. deep, at the 



Savoy Hotel, when his 
earth-bucket unhooked an 
immense iron rod, which 
fell with a frightful crash 
and quivered in the ground 
at the bottom, within a few 
inches of the diver, whose 
attendant it had disem- 
boweled on its way down. 
Speaking of his professional 
bete noir, Palmer remarked, 
naively, "You see, when 
you're in a well you can 
never tell what's coming 
down ; it may be a brick, 
or a bucket, or even part 
of the wall." We may add 
that deep-sea divers also 
strongly object to well work; 
for this objection they give 
the curious reason that 
they feel stifled and oppressed within so strait 
an area. 

After all, this is but natural. Think of 
the deep-sea diver working at a great depth 
in the translucent sea of the tro- 
pics, and surrounded by a veritable 
forest of graceful, drooping submarine 
growths and countless multitudes of 
beautiful fishes, which glide hither 
and thither among the rocks. Ob- 
viously, his lot is cast in pleasant 
places compared with his colleague 
who descends the shaft of a flooded 
coal mine in order to recover scores 
of corpses. During the operations 
at the Severn Tunnel, Portskewett, 
the shaft was flooded with water 
owing to a door in the drainage 
tunnel having been inadvertently left 
open. Mr. Gorman's diver, Lam- 
bert, volunteered to shut this door, 
and equipped with a Fleuss apparatus 
he walked a distance of 1,050ft. up 
the tunnel, in water 50ft. deep, so as 
to accomplish his perilous mission. 

Many of the wrecking divers told 
gruesome stories of their adventures 
under water. Palmer, who was evi- 
dently impressed by the experience, 
described how he had seen dead 
women floating before his eyes and 
standing at the top of the companion- 
ladder of a sunken steamer, their hair 
streaming behind them, and some 
carrying infants clasped in their rigid 

As we have said before, the fish in 
certain waters are a hindrance ; they 


From a Photo, by Perez, San Francisco. 

are greatly disliked by the 
diver, especially if they 
happen to be sharks. Mr. 
Lambert, Messrs. Siebe and 
Gorman's late chief diver, 
once had a thrilling fight 
with a shark at the bottom 
of the Indian Ocean ; this 
man, by the way, was, with- 
out doubt, the greatest 
adept in his extraordinary 
profession that has yet ap- 
peared. On the occasion 
referred to, Lambert had 
been sent to the Island of 
Diego Garcia to fix copper 
sheets on a coal hulk that 
had been fouled by a stea- 
mer. Strange as it may 
seem, the diver was annoyed 
by the same shark every 
day for nearly a week ; the monster was tem- 
porarily scared away, however, every time 
Lambert opened the escape valve in his 
helmet and allowed some air to rush out. 


Wnt Igariiu Jnsuranre fljomjjang, Jimited, 



6*TK-y* — T^e—eCes 

Vol. x.— 61 




We take it that at these times 
the shark thought there was 
a whale somewhere about. 

One day Lambert signalled 
to his attendants for a big 
sheath knife and a looped 
rope. Having got these, he 
used his bare hand as a bait, 
and waited until the shark 
commenced to turn on its 
back, when he stabbed it re- 
peatedly, passed the noose 
round its body, and signalled 
for it to be drawn up. The 
diver brought home the 
shark's backbone as a trophy. 
Many divers — especially 
among the pearl-fishers of 
Western Australia — will not 
venture into the depths of the 
southern seas unless they are 
provided with a huge iron cage in which they 
may work. We imagine that even then it is 
uncomfortable enough to see a multitude of 
strange and diabolical-looking creatures peer- 


From a Photograph. 



ing in through the bars. Shark cages for 
divers cost about ;£io each, and weigh a 
quarter of a ton. 

Mr. Lambert's greatest achievement was 
the recovery of treasure from the 
Alfonso XII., a Spanish mail 
steamer belonging to the Lopez 
Line, which sank off Point Gando, 
Grand Canary, in 26^ fathoms 
of water. The salvage party was 
dispatched by the underwriters 
in May, 1885, the vessel having 
^100,000 in specie on board. 
The letter we reproduce on the 
preceding page gives the ultimate 
result. For nearly six months the 
operations were persevered in, and 
golden bait was dangled before the 
divers who could reach the trea- 
sure-room beneath the three decks. 
Two divers lost their lives in the 
vain attempt, the pressure of water 
being fatal. Our illustration, show- 
ing Lambert in the hold of the 
tneasure-ship, is a drawing from a 
painting which Mr. Gorman had 
executed to commemorate the 
recovery of ^90,000 from the 
Alfonso XII. ; Lambert's share of 
this was ^4,500. Our artist took a 
photograph of one of the original 
treasure-chests removed from the 
vessel ; it will be seen that one of 
the gold coins is set in a glass panel 
in the side of the box. This in- 
teresting relic is in the museum 
in Mr. Gorman's private office. 

The New Broom. 

By H. D. Lowry. 

N the good old days of the 
French war, when England 
was so occupied upon the 
seas that she had little time 
to guard her coasts minutely, 
the people of Trewarne were 
smugglers to a man, and throve exceedingly. 
There were, indeed, riding-officers stationed 
hard by, but they were not numerous enough 
to interfere effectually — nor, 'tis said, were 
they notably eager to have their hands 

But this season of prosperity and un- 
troubled quiet came to an end. Peace to 
England meant the very reverse to Trewarne. 
It was with the utmost disgust that its people 
saw their old friends being replaced, or so 
surrounded with new 

colleagues, altogether 
unused to the ways 
of the district, that 
they could not re- 
main harmless if 
they would. It was 
soon beyond a doubt 
that the revenue-men 
were really in earnest 
in their endeavours 
to suppress the free 

Among the men of 
Trewarne, the whole 
blame in this matter 
was laid upon the 
shoulders of John 
Coffin, a new man, 
whose energy was 
such that in mere 
self-defence his com- 
rades were compelled 
to emulate his de- 
testable activity. 

He was a little 
man, black-bearded, 
and exceeding neat 
in his attire. He 
spoke outlandishly, 
mincing his words 
after the manner of 
people inhabiting the 
regions which lie up 
the country. And 


he interfered shamelessly with the business 
of his neighbours. 

For example, at the edge of the cliff, some 
two miles to the west of Trewarne, there was 
a copper mine. Just above the sea-level a 
tunnel had been driven from the shaft to the 
face of the cliff. The water pumped up from 
the bottom of the mine was not taken to the 
surface, but simply raised to the level of this 
" adit," and so allowed to gain the sea. And 
the recording angel alone can tell how many 
a keg of good liquor, landed on the beach, 
has gone into that adit, been carried to the 
shaft, and conveyed to the surface in the 
great iron " kibble," a bucket which was used 
for hauling the ore to "grass." Once the 
stuff had gained the surface, it was stowed 
away in the engine- 
house, to be sent in 
to its ultimate des- 
tination at a con- 
venient opportunity. 
Now, one night a 
very decent little 
cargo had been run. 
A goodly number of 
kegs were buried in 
the sand of the 
beach ; some two 
score were carried up 
into the adit, and 
later on drawn to the 
surface in the kibble. 
They had been care- 
fully disposed in the 
engine-house, and all 
seemed well, when 
suddenly the place 
was invaded by a 
gang of revenue-men. 
The engineer did not 
lose his presence of 
mind ; he sprang to 
the safety-valve. In 
a moment the room 
was filled with steam, 
and Customs officers 
and miners were 
tumbling one over 
the other in wild 
confusion. But, pre- 
sently, John Coffin 




got to the safety-valve, and stopped the 
escape of steam. The miners melted away 
like summer clouds (being unarmed), and, 
a little later, saw the good liquor going off 
in casks to the stronghold of the revenue- 
men. Mr. Coffin was a proud man, but there 
were ominous murmurs as he retired, and 
his name suggested many a grim pleasantry. 

This sort of thing happened continually, 
but as the smugglers were still secure from 
loss if they saved one cargo in three — and 
as they had behind them many years of 
uninterrupted success — it made no great 
difference. Indeed, the men engaged in the 
traffic saw the humorous aspect in the 
triumphant mien of John Coffin, and for a 
little while thought the spectacle well worth 
the loss of a few kegs from time to time. It 
was at this time that they constructed a 
" cavie," or store, in a big field not two 
hundred yards away from the Custom-house. 
But John Coffin was not content with these 
successes, and his ambition soon became 

Of all the young men in those parts, Jim 
Penlerrick was the most promising. There 
were none but knew the traditions of the 
smuggling, and could help if help were 
needed. But Jim was one of those rare 
spirits who make traditions. He was hardly 
more than four-and-twenty, tall, fair, and 
boyish, but he had already made himself a 
name by the cleverness of the dodges he 
invented, and the magnificent coolness with 
which he carried them into execution. It 
was no wonder that Maggie Opie, the prettiest 
girl in Trewarne, was proud to have him 
known as her sweetheart. 

She was a little, dark-haired creature, with 
cheeks tinted like wild roses, and big grey 
eyes that would have made conversation an 
easy thing to her if she had chanced to be 
born dumb. There was a childish innocence 
in them sometimes, and sometimes a reckless 
mischief, which Jim himself could only envy 
and admire. It was said that some of his 
cleverest inventions had been inspired by her. 
And there was only one thing in her which 
Jim deemed unreasonable : she appeared to 
detest John Coffin with all the strength of 
her soul. It seemed to Jim that to do this 
in such a case was to go beyond what was 
necessary or appropriate. He had outwitted 
the man so frequently, that he felt almost 
kindly towards him. 

But one day his view of the matter was 
changed. Maggie reported to him certain 
events which had befallen her while he was 
away upon his latest voyage to Roscoff, 

Once or twice lately, she explained, it had 
been borne in upon her that John Coffin was 
much more polite to her than he had any 
reason to be. She had forborne to speak of 
the matter, because there were a multitude of 
smuggling histories which proved beyond a 
doubt that it was oftentimes convenient for 
such a one as she to have something of a 
hold over such as he. But now she could 
not ignore the matter any longer. 

" What you'll say," she said, " I'm sure I 
can't think ; but I hope you won't do any- 
thing rash." 

It appeared, then, that Maggie was coming 
back to the village from a visit to Breach, a 
little church -town two miles distant from 
Trewarne. She had hardly started when she 
met John Coffin. 

" Good afternoon, Miss Opie," he said. 
" 'Tis pleasant weather for the time of the 
year " ; and he stopped, so that Maggie 
could hardly pass on immediately. 

" Iss," she said, "'tis pretty weather." 

" May I keep 'ee company along the road ? " 
said the man. '"Tis a lonely old road." 

Maggie raised her eyes to his ; then they 
fluttered and fell. "Tis very kind of you." 

They discussed a multitude of indifferent 
subjects. Then, " I didn't see Mr. Pen- 
lerrick when I was down in Trewarne just 
now," said Coffin. 

" No ? " said Maggie. 

" I didn't see the Dream, either. I suppose 
she's gone to sea again ? " 

" How should I know ? " said Maggie, 
innocently. " Is Jim Penlerrick the man to 
tell a girl what are his plans ? " 

"Well," said Coffin, "I suppose he'll be 
back for Sunday, being Feasten-Sunday. I 
shouldn' think he'd be later than Thursday, 
for the fair's on Friday." 

" Are 'ee goin' to the fair, Mr. Coffin ? " 
said Maggie. 

The man smiled. "If I could see you 
there " 

" Aw," said Maggie, " you can see that 
any time. Why, the waxworks is coming 
that haven't been here these four years." 

" Waxworks is no attraction," said Coffin, 
contemptuously. " Give me flesh and blood." 

" Well," said Maggie, " if waxworks is no 
attraction, I suppose you won't be there." 

In a minute or two the subject was 

" 'Tis a lonely life down here for one that's 
been used to bigger places," said Coffin. 
" If a man had a wife, perhaps 'twould be 
all he'd want. He'd have some interest in 
his work then ; but as it is -" 



" I won't bring 'ee no further, Mr. Coffin," 
said Maggie, interrupting him. " Many 
thanks for your company." 

And the little man looked at her meltingly. 
" No need of thanks ! " he ejaculated. 
" 'Tis yours whenever you like to take it, 
and for so long a time as you choose." He 
raised his hat with a flourish, and Maggie 

u • )0 

\j>^™F%$ o& '&& 


walked on homeward, having now reached 
the outskirts of the village. She knew not 
whether to laugh or to be indignant. Finally 
she did both. 

Jim Penlerrick and the men of the Dream 
landed their cargo that very night, and got it 
into a place of security without untimely in- 
terruption. The next morning Maggie came 
to her window early and inspected the har- 
bour which it overlooked. The Dream was 
there - } even while she looked at it she heard 

a whistle, and, glancing up the road, she saw 
Jim Penlerrick coming to call on her. So 
she descended quickly, heard the tale of his 
adventures during the time of this last 
absence, and, in conclusion, told her own 

"It looked to me," she added, "like as if 
the man wanted me to tell all I know, and 
offered to make me 
Mrs. Coffin in re- 
ward. Now, Jim, 
don't 'ee go an' do 
anything foolish. 
Perhaps he never 
meant it after all." 
Jim laughed 
grimly. " Perhaps 
not," he said. "All 
the same, I fancy 
a bit of a lesson 
would do him no 
harm He can't 
have thought you 
was bad - hearted, 
so he must ha' 
fancied you could 
be fooled easy. 
And he must be 
cured of all such 
fancies as that." 

Maggie flushed. 
" I never thought 
o' that," she said. 
"Jim, you can do 
just what you like 
with him." And 
Jim went off to 
his breakfast, full 
of thought as to 
how the end he 
had in view was 
to be obtained. 

That afternoon 

he went through 

the village with a 

friend, carrying a 

stout post some 

ten or twelve feet 

in length. They made off in the direction 

of a small and secluded cove, about a mile 

to the west of Trewarne. 

Later in the day John Coffin chanced 
upon a little girl who was idly wandering 
by the roadside. He was about to pass on 
when the child spoke. 

" Do 'ee know the lane leadin' to Pentrize 
Cove ? " said the child. 
" Yes," said Coffin. 
" Well/' said the child, " I got a message 



for 'ee. You must be at the top of the lane 
by half-past seven, to meet a friend." 

Coffin inspected the messenger suspiciously. 
" Who sent you ? " he asked. 

" Aw," said the child, " she said I mustn't 
mention no name." 

Coffin laughed. " Well," he said, " I don't 
know that you need. Here, this'll buy you 
some lollipops." He gave the child some 
coppers and passed on. And he was perfectly 
right in the impression he carried with him, 
for the little girl waited until he was out of 
sight, and then went off as speedily as might 
be to Maggie Opie's home, where she reported 
progress and showed Coffin's gift. 

"Well done," said _ _ 

Maggie. "Spoil the 
Egyptians where and 
when you can. 
There's good ex- 
amples for that." 
But at half- past 
seven she was talk- 
ing at the cottage 
gate with the 
daughter of a neigh- 
bour, nor did she 
quit her home until 
more than an hour 
later, when Jim Pen- 
lerrick turned up 
and suggested a 
brief stroll. He had 
manifestly some jest 
to share with her. 

Now, John Coffin 
had never doubted 
as to the identity of 
the sender of the 
message. At half- 
past seven precisely 
he began to mount 
the hilly lane, and 
when he had 
reached the ap- 
pointed place he lit a pipe and waited. 
For a long time no one came. He began 
to grow more and more impatient, know- 
ing that the girl could have nothing on 
earth to keep her at this hour. And slowly 
there dawned upon him a dreadful doubt : 
could it be that she had fooled him and was 
not coming at all ? He put the thought from 
him, but only for a time. In the end he 
swore vehemently, and would have turned 
away, had not a roar of laughter suddenly 
arrested him. Before he could recover from 
his surprise he was struggling in the midst of 
half-a-dozen men, and a moment later they 

had overpowered and bound him, putting a 
gag between his teeth. 

All this time they had not spoken a word, 
and it was still in utter silence that he was 
compelled to march, a man at either arm, in 
the direction of the Cove. Coffin did not 
doubt that he had fallen into the hands of 
smugglers resolved to revenge on him the 
recent injuries to the traffic they carried on. 
He remembered a hundred horrid tales of 
violence, and his heart quailed within him. 

They led him onward until the sound of 
the sea broke on his ears, and soon he was 
being led by a wild and dangerous path down 
to the little yellow beach. His captors dealt 


none too gently with him when they came to 
cross the space of tumbled boulders at the 
foot of the cliff. And when they had gained 
the beach they -led him to where a tall, 
wooden post had been fixed in an upright 
position in the sand. One of the men 
advanced and kicked it. It quivered, but 
otherwise was firm, being deeply sunk, and 
having big stones buried about its base. 
And John Coffin would have cried aloud for 
mercy had he been able. 

For he realized what they were going to 
do with him. They raised him, and bound 
him against the wooden post, and he looked 



desperately out to sea— gagged, so that he still 
could not speak — and wondered how long it 
would be before the advancing tide would 
reach him. The men moved about in silence, 
testing all the knots with tremendous vigilance 
before they moved away in a band and 
vanished in the blackness of the cliff's 
shadow. And John Coffin was left alone to 
watch the slow, relentless advance of doom. 

There was no moon. The clear starlight 
quivered in lines of silver on the dark plain 
of the sea. He could distinguish through the 
gloom the glimmer of the breakers; there 
was a heavy ground-swell on, and he knew 
that, even if he had been able to shout, even 
if any human being had chanced to approach 
this lonely region of the coast after the fall of 
darkness, it would still be in vain to hope 
for rescue, since his voice would not be heard 
above the din of the tide. 

He did not lack courage— as, indeed, he 
had proved beyond dispute by the conduct 
which had brought him into his present pre- 
dicament ; for to interfere seriously with the 
smuggling was to take up arms against a 
united countryside — even, he had sometimes 
dimly suspected, against the local magnates 
who should - have been glad to co-operate 
with him in the work. And in that work he 
had never been afraid. He knew that he 
risked his life ; but he went armed, and the 
risk would never have troubled him had he 
been a free man and at liberty to fight 
for his life. He 
would almost have 
enjoyed the excite- 
ment. But to be 
bound to a post 
on a lonely beach, 
and to wait in the 
darkness for death, 
whose thundering 
footsteps already 
deafened him, was 
an ordeal beyond 
what a man is made 
to bear. A cold 
fear froze his heart. 
They might have 
taken away the gag, 
and he would still 
have lacked the 
power of speech. 

He realized that 
this vengeance of 
the smugglers was 
not so much a 
return for his inter- 
ferences with their 

actual trade, as for the few words he had 
spoken with Maggie Opie ; and he knew that 
her treachery had betrayed him. His heart 
was bitter against her. He was forced to 
admit that he had tried to draw from her 
some information as to the plans of the free- 
traders. His profession was so dear to him 
that it filled his life ; even if he had striven to 
do so, he could never have forgotten for a 
moment that he had been sent there to 
protect the King's revenue. And he had 
stopped to talk with Maggie, in the first place, 
not because he knew that she possessed 
valuable information, but merely because he 
had seen no girl in all his life who was half 
so pretty, no girl whom he would more 
unwillingly have vexed. And he had en- 
deavoured to learn the secrets with which 
she was acquainted involuntarily and out of 

He had been ten minutes alone, though 
the time had seemed longer than the longest 
night to the man who is tired and cannot 
sleep. Suddenly he heard footsteps on the 
soft sand close at hand. 

The men had returned. They had gained 
the top of the path, and then, a mode of 
deepening the horror of his situation occur- 
ring to them, they had returned. They did 
not .speak a word. One of them took a big 
red handkerchief from his pocket, folded it, 
and bound it tightly over Coffin's eyes. Then 
they once more left him alone. 




The thunder of the sea grew louder and 
more near. The wretched man could in no 
wise guess the distance of the waves. But 
terror summoned up before his blinded eyes 
a vision of the great, grey wall of water 
which gradually drew nearer and nearer. 
He expected to feel every moment the cold 
touch of the first wave, when it should break 
and shoot shallow up the sloping sand. 

The very minutes seemed interminable and 
so filled with intolerable fear that he con- 
stantly fancied he must lose his reason 
immediately. And suddenly a shock of 
terror threw the blood back upon his heart. 
A wave had broken close at hand ; the cold 
water had reached his feet and flooded his 

He waited for the next ; waited, as it 
seemed to him, for many minutes. Possibly, 
he thought, the wave which had reached his 
feet had been one of those tremendous 
ninth waves with 
which the sea kills 
men when, with the 
other eight, it has 
played with them 
as a cat plays with 
a wretched mouse. 

He waited, and 

Suddenly he 
awoke as from a 
drugged sleep, and 
found that day was 
breaking. The 
waves were far re- 
moved. And 
Maggie stood in 
front of him, the 
red handkerchief in 
her hand. 

She looked at 
him strangely, and 
he endeavoured to 
recall the events of 
the night. Maggie 
saw his difficulty 
and spoke. 

" Are 'ee better 
now ? " she said, 
'ee there. I told 

what fear you would have — I could see you 
standing there and waiting for death ; 'twas 
as if I stood there myself. I knew 'twas but 
a joke, and Lord knows I've no love for 
revenue-men. So I fought against it at first. 
But at last I couldn't stand against it longer ; 
I came out to set 'ee free." 

She cut the bands, and he took the gag 
from his mouth. In a moment Maggie was 
on the other side again. 

" Look ! " she said, " you won't make a row 
about it. 'Twas only a joke with them. The 
tide never wetted more than your feet." 

John Coffin turned and looked at her in 
silence. " No," he said, at last, " I will say 
nothing. But you are hard on a man whose 
sin was that he thought you the prettiest maid 
he had ever seen." He turned away from 
her and moved stiffly and slowly towards 
the path which led up the face of the cliff. 

Maggie watched him as he went. "I have 


' 'Twas me that put 
and the men swore 
they would punish 'ee, for a joke, so they 
fastened 'ee there, taking care to put 'ee 
just where the tide would stop when it 
came up. And I laughed over it when they 
came back and told me what they had done. 
But, soon as I was abed, I began to think 

no love for revenue-men," she had said ; 
which is curious, for when she was married 
six months later, she took the name of 

I had this very story from a grandson of 
theirs, himself a coastguard, and afterwards 
discovered it was still told by the older folk 
among the inhabitants of Trewarne. 

M.P.'s as Artists. 

By William G. FitzGerald. 


E all know Sir Herbert E. 
Maxwell as a distinguished 
authority on natural history 
and archaeology, but few are 
aware that he is an artist of 
no mean ability. And, further- 
more, he is an acute observer. Together we 

were looking through some studies of cows, 
probably intended by Sir Herbert for use in 
an elaborate oil-painting. " Talking of cows," 
he remarked to me, in his own gentle way, 
" Londoners have a capital example offered 
them just now of cockney ignorance of 
pastoral science. A huge advertisement of 
condensed milk may be seen on hoardings 
about the town — less offensive than most of 
its kind, though, for it is really a beautiful bit 
of work. It represents a lovely Alpine valley, 
with verdant upland lawns in the foreground 
and snowy peaks beyond. No doubt this is 
a faithful picture, well executed, of the source 
of supply ; but why has the artist stocked the 
picture with beefy English shorthorns, instead 
of dun Swiss cows ? " 

When I first approached Sir Herbert Max- 
well on the subject of this article, he assured 
me he had given up 
art for some years ; 
moreover, all the ex- 
amples he had at his 
town house in Lennox 
Gardens were a few oil 
sketches, which might 
or might not suit my 
purpose. Lady Max- 
well, however, came to 
my assistance. She 
suggested that Sir 
Herbert should send 
to Monreith for the 
two big albums where- 
in were deposited 
hundreds of water- 
colour drawings, 
sketches, pictorial 
social skits, and nu- 
merous other miscel- 
laneous examples of 
Sir Herbert's art, rang- 
ing from caricatures 
to gorgeous heraldic 
designs in scarlet and 
gold. Monreith is 
the Maxwell seat in 
Wigtownshire SIR HERBERT maxwell, ba 

v igiy w nsmre. Prom a photo b Barrauds. 

Vol. x.— 52. 

The albums were duly sent for ; but while 
they were in my possession for the purpose of 
making a selection, Sir Herbert was appointed 
British delegate to the International Confer- 
ence on the Protection of Wild Birds Useful 
to Agriculture. This imposing body met in 
Paris. However, Sir Herbert was only absent 
a few days, and I lost no time in paying him 
another visit the moment he returned to town. 

The first of Sir Herbert Maxwell's sketches 
reproduced here is a street scene in Stras- 
bourg. " I was in Strasbourg with a friend 
in 1875," explained Sir Herbert. " No," he 
went on, " it wasn't a sketching expedition 
really, although we sketched any number of 
subjects as we went along. We stayed in 
Strasbourg about a week. This particular 
sketch was drawn and finished on the spot. 
I remember it was a frightfully hot day, and 
we sat on the parapet at the side of the canal 
and worked for a couple of hours or so. The 
scene would rather resemble a bit of Venice 
were* it not for the washing boats, on which 
all the clothes of the city are washed— unless, 
of course, they have other arrangements now. 

" I should think I made at least twenty 
sketches while in 
Strasbourg," Sir Her- 

bert continued. "One 
day we two were 
sketching on the ram- 
parts, when the wall- 
patrol came along and 
ordered us off. We 
didn't quite under- 
stand what he was 
talking about, but 
there was no mistak- 
ing his intention. We 
intimated that we 
should not again 
offend in this way, and 
then went right out- 
side what we con- 
sidered the ramparts. 
Here we resumed 
operations, having 
capital material at 
hand. The patrol 
came along again, 
though, from which it 
is evident that he had 
kept an eye on us. 
He was, or pre- 
tended to be, utterly 



From a Sketch by Sir Herbert Maxwell, Bart. 

horrified to behold us ' at it again,' and he 
arrested both of us forthwith. We were then 
taken through the streets, and as by this time 
word had gone round that two spies had been 
seized red-handed, we were followed to the 
guard-house by a huge mob that hooted and 
shrieked, and threw things in a manner that 
may have been patriotic, but certainly was 
intensely exasperating. Then, the guard- 
sergeant could speak neither English nor 
French, and we didn't know German ; so there 
was a considerable delay. An officer arrived 
at last, however, and to him we explained 
matters in French. Not many hours after 
this we were out of Strasbourg altogether." 

The accompanying book-illustration was 
done by Sir Herbert at a time when ihe 
influence of Ruskin was very strong upon 
him. There were four of these illustrations 
in the album, and the detail in each was so 
very fine that the drawing resembled a re- 
production. In working on these, Sir Herbert 
used a steel crow-quill. These drawings were 
intended to illustrate a French fairy tale of 
the last century, which Sir Herbert partially 
translated with a view to publication. The 
tale is called " Acajou and Zilbride," and is 
something of a literary curiosity. In Sir 
Herbert's album the drawing reproduced here 
bears the inscription : " Pikelenay arrives at 
the capital of Minutia" — possibly a recondite 
allusion to the labour involved in its execution. 

" Of course, these pictures are purely ima- 
ginary," Sir Herbert remarked. " No doubt 

they were suggested by some pantomime or 
burlesque," he added, with masterly bathos. 

Sir Herbert tells me that he worked as a 
student at South Kensington in 1868. He 
took up art as a profession because he was an 


Book- Illustration by Sir Herbert Maxwell, Bart. 

m.p:s as artists. 




^uUUf, tUJ //*~/-v/, d * jL P~ Was* AjUlsi J-***^4 



idle man, so to speak, without too much 
means ; and it seemed to be a congenial 
occupation, as well as one supplementary to 
those means. Sir Herbert took up art 
steadily for seven years, painting both in oil 
and water-colour. He also exhibited a few 
things — chiefly landscapes — in the Scottish 
Academy. Then his father died, and he 
succeeded to large estates in Wigtownshire ; 
two years later he entered the House of 

The next picture may be described as a 
sketch for a journal of the Punch order, 
and reveals the baronet in the light of 
a comic black-and-white artist. At one time 
Sir Herbert used to go in a great deal for 
this kind of thing, but his friends invariably 
clamoured for such sketches ; so much so, 
in fact, that this is the only one that remains 
in the possession of the artist. Sir Herbert 
Maxwell is one of those fortunate men who 
need never fear poverty. This drawing 
shows observation, humour, and power, and 
its author would certainly have succeeded in 
art even if he had not succeeded his father. 
Sir Herbert came under the influence of 
Ruskin while at Oxford, just when the great 
master's writings were in their first popularity. 
" I don't think he takes you by a good course 
to represent things," Sir Herbert remarked to 
me. " I had to get rid of his influence 
before I was able to do even what I did. 
Ruskin's instructions tended to cramp: to copy 

very small details, 
such as grasses, 
stones, seeds, and 
the like." 

The last exam- 
ple given of Sir 
Herbert Maxwell's 
artistic work is a 
first-rate character 
study. The old 
gentleman de- 
picted is Mr. Car- 
rick Moore, of 
the Geological 
Society, and the 
sketch was made 
at the villa of 
Lady Maxwell (Sir 
Herbert's mother) 
at Bournemouth. 
Lady Maxwell and 
Mr. Moore were 
playing chess to- 
gether afterdinner, 
and while the latter was contemplating a new 
move he was rapidly sketched by Sir Herbert 
from the other end of the room. Sir Herbert 
was at this time perpetually on the look-out 
for. good subjects ; and his subject on this 
occasion was quite unaware of his object. 

maxwell's COMIC BLACK- 


From a Sketch by Sir Herbert Maxwell, Bart. 



A few weeks ago I 
called at the Marquis of 
Granby's beautiful house 
in Bruton Street; and the 
moment I entered the 
cosy little study I realized 
that the noble Marquis 
must have a predilection 
for the sea. The walls were 
simply covered with sea- 
scapes of every con- 
ceivable kind, and ob- 
viously representing 
diverse latitudes. I re- 
marked on this, where- 
upon Lord Granby, after 
requesting me to be seated, 
gave the following interest- 
ing account of his artistic 
training : "When I was 
quite a little boy I was 
taught drawing by Mr. 
J. C. Schetky, sometime 
Marine Painter in Ordin- 
ary to the Queen. This artist had been a 
friend of our family almost for generations, 
and spent most of his time at Belvoir Castle 
(the magnificent seat of the Duke of Rutland 
in Leicestershire). Mr. Schetky continued 
to paint when he was considerably over 
eighty ; and, see, there is a sketch he did 
for me shortly before his death." Here the 
Marquis pointed out a beautiful water-colour 
drawing at the back of his writing-table : 
" Presented as a souvenir to the Hon. Henry 
Manners by his friend, J. C. Schetky, on 
January 25th, 
1863." The 
sketch illustrates 
a nautical inci- 
dent in " Tom 

"Mr. Schetky," 
resumed Lord 
Granby, "taught 
me to draw 
marine subjects 
almost exclu- 
sively, and took 
infinite pains to 
initiate me into 
the mysteries of 
rigging and nau- 
tical matters of 
the like nature." 
Plainly, the in- 
fluence of the 
master never left 
the pupil. The 

noble Marquis says that 
whenever he is cruising 
in his yacht, or merely 
staying at one of our sea- 
side resorts, he is always 
on the look-out for con- 
genial subjects such as 
that reproduced here. 
Most of Lord Granby's 
sepia and Indian ink 
sketches of this kind were 
done at Folkestone. " I 
love the sea," the Marquis 
declared, "and have spent 
many, many years of my 
life upon it. I'm afraid 
you won't be able to 
include me in your list, 
though," he went on, 
smilingly, " for I am no 
longer an M.P. ; my 
brother, Lord Edward 
Manners, has taken my 
Here is another little drawing by Lord 
Granby. Let the noble artist tell its story : 
" Some few years ago — I' think it was in 1882 
or 1883 —I had a great deal of time on hand, 
and was rather at a loss to know what to 
do with it. Eventually, I thought I would 
take a trip to Canada, so I booked a passage 
from Liverpool by one of the Allan line of 
steamers. When we were about a hundred 
miles from the banks of Newfoundland, a dense 
fog came on ; worse still, the summer being 
both very hot and very early, there were hosts 


Sketched by Lord Granby, at night, near Folkestone. 




From a Drawing by the Marquis of Granby. 

of icebergs about. Just as the fog was lifting, 
the cod-boat you see in the sketch had the 
narrowest possible escape of being run down 
by the immense liner. As we sheered off 
from the little vessel I sketched her, together 
with the icebergs in her vicinity." 

Lord Granby then went on to relate many 
interesting reminiscences of his Mediterranean 
cruises, and his adventures during the riots 
that preceded the Egyptian War. For during 
that exciting period the 
noble Marquis went off 
from Cairo, on sketching 
expeditions, up the Nile, 
almost as far as Khartoum. 

The next artist that 
figures here is Mr. J. 
Williams Benn, the ener- 
getic "member for Lon- 
don " in the last Parlia- 
ment. At the General 
Election Mr. Benn was 
defeated by the narrow 
majority of four votes, 
but he still remains an 
active member of the 
London County Council. 
He used to lecture at the 
institutes on art matters 
— on Cruikshank, Calde- 
cott, and Japanese art ; 
he also attained consider- 
able fame as a lightning 
caricaturist at public meet- 

From a Photograph. 

ings, wherefore is 
he an invaluable 
ally at election 

I saw Mr. Benn 
at the West- 
minster Palace 
Hotel, which, at 
certain seasons, 
becomes a kind 
of Parliamentary 
barracks. He 
told me he has 
always had a 
taste for art — 
ever since he was 
thrashed by his 
mother for de- 
corating her draw- 
ing - room walls 
with a blue pencil. 
The first of Mr. 
Benn's sketches 
reproduced on 
the next page is 
taken from an unpublished " Christmas 
number " with which he presented his 
colleagues on the London County Council, 
shortly after joining that well-known body 
in 1890. The "number" consisted of 
about thirty drawings, and about 130 copies 
were produced. For the most part these 
drawings were supposed to be designs for 
statuary and stained-glass windows wherewith 
to decorate the prospective municipal palace 
in Spring Gardens. 

In the first design, Sir 
Arthur Arnold, the Chair- 
man of the Council — 
who is strongly opposed 
to the payment of council- 
lors — figures as Cromwell 
ordering the removal of 
" that bauble " — which, 
in this particular instance, 
assumes the very accept- 
able form of a bag con- 
taining ^2,000, the pro- 
posed salary of the vice- 
chairman. Mr. Benn 
showed me many other 
drawings of a similar 
character. One was an 
effective statuesque group, 
" Theseus Macdougallus 
Overcoming the Centaur 
Musichallus," which needs 
no comment whatever. 
In the next sketch we 



see our late Pre- 
mier making a 
pathetic appeal to 
a " woodman " of 
a peculiarly low 
type. With regard 
to Lord Rosebery's 
association with the 
Council, it may be 
remembered that 
during his first 
year of chairman- 
ship the Shah came 
to London, and the 
noble lord was very 
anxious that the 
trees of the Thames 
should not be in- 
jured by sight-seers 
desirous of behold- 
ing; Nasr - ed - Din 


From a kketch by Mr. J. W. Benn 

and his priceless jewels. Lord Rosebcry 
therefore issued a special request to the 
public with the view of insuring this ; and as 
the L.C.C. was very much to the fore just 
then, Mr. Benn seized upon the tree incident 
as a subject for a sketch. 

An article dealing with accomplishments 


By Mr. J. W. Benn. 


From a Photo, by Barrauds. 

of any kind would be incomplete without 
Sir John Lubbock, banker, statesman, and 
scientist. I therefore called at 2, St. James's 
Square, and was shown into the inner 
entrance-hall, at the foot of the grand stair- 

m.p:s as artists. 


case — a magnificent apart- 
ment, upholstered in crim- 
son satin. Presently Sir 
John came down, and, 
after expressing a hope 
that he hadn't kept me 
waiting long, he led the 
way to his study. "I'm 
afraid you'll think I brought 
you here under false pre- 
tences," he remarked, smil- 
ingly ; " for all I've done in 
the way of drawing is a few 
diagrams illustrating ex- 
periments in natural his- 
tory." Sir John elected to 
illustrate for me a few of 
the wonderful and interest- 
ing means of dispersion 
possessed by certain seeds. 
One of our own European 
species — the Xanthium 
Spinosum — has, he tells 
me, been rapidly spread 
over the whole of South Africa, the 
being carried in the wool of sheep. 

Here is a sketch, by Sir John himself, of 
the common sweet violet, of which it is often 
said — for instance, by Vaucher — that it sows 
its' own seeds. As the stalk elongates, the 
seed-capsule droops, and finally touches the 
earth. Then comes the rain, which loosens 
the soil ; and when the seeds are fully ripe 
the capsule opens by three valves and allows 
them to escape. 

In the dog violet, however, the case is 
very different. Though pendant when young, 
the capsules are less fleshy ; and at maturity 
they erect themselves, as seen in the accom- 
panying illustration. 
They stand up boldly 
above the rest of the 
plant and open by the 
three equal valves, 
each of which con- 
tains a row of from 
three to five smooth, 
brown seeds. As the 
walls of the valves 
become drier, they 
contract, thus tending 
to squeeze out the 
seeds. These, how- 
ever, resist at first; 
but at length the 
attachment of the 
seed to its base gives 
way, and it is ejected 
several feet, this being 

a, young bud ; 6, ripe seed capsule. 
From a Sketch by Sir John Lubbock. 

seeds violets grow. 

Viola canlnet. 
, bud ; 0, bud more advanced ; c, capsule open, some of the seeds are already 
From a Sketch by Sir John Lubbock. 

much facilitated by its 
form and smoothness. Sir 
John has known a gathered 
specimen to throw a seed 
nearly ten feet. 

What is the reason for 
this difference between the 
species of violets ? The 
one buries its capsules 
among the moss and 
leaves upon the ground, 
while the other raises them 
aloft, and throws the seeds 
to seek their fortunes in 
the world. The reason is, 
Sir John believes, to be 
found in the different 
mode of growth. The dog 
violet is a plant with an 
elongated stalk, and it is 
easy, therefore, for the 
capsule to raise itself 
above the grass and other 
low herbage among which 
The other species has, so to 
speak, no stalk, the leaves being radical — 
that is, rising from the root. 

Then there are moving seeds, which per- 
form quite a little journey. Perhaps the 
most wonderful of these is that of the South 
European grass known as Stipa Pennata, one 
of the seeds of which Sir John has sketched. 
This seed is small, with a sharp point, and 
short, stiff hairs pointing backwards. The 
upper end of the seed is produced into a 
fine, twisted, corkscrew-like rod, which is 
followed by a plain portion attached to a 
long and beautiful feather, the whole being 
more than a foot in length. Swiss Alpine 
guides, Sir John tells 
me, sometimes wear 
plumes of this grass 
in their caps. 

Briefly, the story of 
the dispersion and 
sowing of this seed 
is as follows. It is 
first of all blown away 
by the wind ; then it 
falls to the ground 
point downwards, as 
is natural from its 
formation. Sooner 
or later a shower 
comes on to soften 
the earth, and then 
the breeze catches 
the feather, causes 
the corkscrew to 



revolve, and so gradually 
screws the seed into the 

The next sketch was made 
by Sir John after he had 
determined for himself the 
throwing of the seeds under 
consideration. The plant is 
the geranium known as the 
Herb Robert, and the draw- 
ing shows the gradual de- 
velopment of the seeds from 
the withering of the flower 

Being at High Elms, his 
seat in Kent, Sir John one 
day gathered a specimen of 
this geranium, and retired 
with it to his billiard-room. 
He then placed it in an 
upright natural position in 
a glass on the billiard-table, 
over half of which he 
spread a sheet that reached 
to the wall. He looked in 
from time to time to see 
how things were going on, 
and at last found that four 

From a Sketch by Sir John Lubbock. 

as he had no idea of their 
having been thrown so far. 
The seeds were eventually 
found on the sheet near the 
wall, having been thrown 
nearly 22ft. from the plant. 

I am paying Mr. W. S. 
Caine no extravagant com- 
pliment when I describe 
him as one of the most 
conscientious and hard- 
working members of Parlia- 
ment that ever served a 
constituency. Only, he is 
not an M.P. now; he assures 
me, however, that his exclu- 
sion is quite temporary. 
My interview with Mr. Caine 
took place at his house on 
the north side of Clapham 

The redoubtable champion 
of the temperance cause is 
something of a traveller. He 
has thoroughly "done" 
India, and has written a 
book thereon ; and he 
journeyed round the world 

out of the five seeds had been thrown. Sir in 1887-88, thereby fulfilling the primary 
John could not at first find them, though, duty of the ideal member of Parliament. 

Instead of reproducing a photograph 
of Mr. Caine, I show on the next 
page a sketch by himself, wherein he is 
depicted " paddling his own canoe " 
in the Rocky Mountains. This 
sketch was made by Mr. Caine 
after an abortive day's fishing in the 
Bow River ; but, perhaps, I had 
better let him tell his own story : — 

" The following day we " (his 
daughter, Miss Hannah Caine, accom- 
panied him) "explored one of the 
small streams tributary to the Bow, 
with a view to learning how to 
manage an Indian birch-bark canoe. 
These canoes are so light that a boy 
can lift one out of the water and 
carry it on his back. The paddler 
sits or kneels in the stern and propels 
the canoe with a broad, single-bladed 
paddle, steering with a sort of back- 
stroke that takes a good deal of 
learning. However, I managed to 
canoe my daughter up two or three 
miles of a running brook, and across 
the beautiful Vermillion Lake, whose 
banks were a wild tangle of brush- 

H&Ttn Robert (Gcrantttm raoer/iantiin). i 1 j i r 

a, bud . i, flower , e, flower after the petals have fallen ; rf, flower with seeds nearly WOOd, poplar, and maple — a peneCt 
ripe ; e, flower with ripe seeds; /, flower after throwing seeds. 11 r j j i j 

From a sketch by sir John Lubbock. blaze of autumn red and gold, out 

m.p:s as artists. 


From the Drawing by Mr. W. S. Caine, 

of which sprang sombre pines and cedars. 
Behind these were the snow-clad mountains, 
the whole perfectly repeated on the placid 
surface of the water." 

The next illustration is reproduced from a 
framed drawing by Mr. Caine that hangs on 
the staircase of the big house overlooking 
Clapham Common. This shows the famous 
images of Amida Buddha, near Nikko, 
Japan. Describing this sketch, Mr. Caine 


From a Sketch by Mr. W. S. Caine. 

said : " One morning we went up the valley 
to get a view of the Nikko range, following a 
path by the banks of a brawling trout stream. 
Two miles from the town we reached the far- 
famed images of Amida Buddha, arranged in 
a long row of many hundreds by the river- 

Vol. x.^-63. 

side, contemplating, with great serenity of 
countenance, the noble range of the Nan-tai- 
San Mountains. Here and there some of 
the heads have been knocked off by Shinto 
blasphemers, or by cockney tourists, who 
behold in this vast row of gods a mere 
glorified cocoa-nut shy. It is supposed to be 
impossible to count this long row of images, 
and while the rest of the party engaged in 
the attempt to do so, I amused myself 

in making a 
sketch of this 

The last of Mr. 
Caine's pictures 
reproduced here 
is a sketch of 
Fujiyama, the 
sacred mountain 
of Japan. "Every 
morning we 
used to go out 
upon the roof 
of our hotel to 
get a view of 
the wonderful 
mountain, which 
appears so con- 
stantly upon the 
various products 
of Japanese art 
and manufacture. You will find a view 
of Fujiyama painted on paper and woven 
into textile fabrics ; worked upon lacquer 
and pottery ; carved in relief on the 
panels of cabinets ; and chased on bronze 



From the Drawing by Mr. II'. S. Caine. 

My list of "M.P.'s as Artists" comes to 
an end with Sir Charles Dilke, whom I saw 
at 76, Sloane Street, after his triumphant 
electioneering campaign in Gloucestershire. 
Like many other distinguished men, Sir 
Charles has been in many lands. " In 
1866-67, I followed England round the 
world," he said. " Everywhere I went I 
was in English-speaking or English-governed 

■Sir Charles has many interesting stories to 
relate about his sojourn in New Zealand. 
" On one occasion I was sketching the head 
of a venerable old dame 
named Oriuhia-te-Aka, 
when my subject inti- 
mated that she wanted 
to see what I was doing. 
I showed her the sketch 
and explained things as 
far as I could, whereupon 
she broke into a torrent 
of abuse in the liquid 
and much - bevowelled 
Maori tongue. After 
some time I was given to 
understand that, owing 
to the omission of certain 
elegant tattoo designs 
that adorned the lady's 
chin, she did not con- 
sider my drawing a good 
portrait. I immediately 
added the requisite 


From a Photo, by the London Stereoscopic Co. 

stripes and curves, and, on noting this 
improvement, the subject of my sketch 
became so exuberant that I almost feared 
she would embrace me." 

A few weeks after this incident Sir Charles 
accompanied Dr. Featherston, the Govern- 
ment agent, to Parewanui Pah, where negotia- 
tions were to be concluded for the purchase 
of a large tract of land required by the 
Provincial Government of Wellington. The 
price was agreed upon, and the only difficulty 
in the matter was to divide the money between 
the various tribes. One tribe had owned the 
land from prehistoric 
times ; another declared 
they had conquered it ; 
while a third chief up 
and spake in the name 
of his people, affirming 
that his ancestors had 
been roasted and made 
into savoury dishes on 
the land, which was, 
therefore, obviously 
sacred to himself and 
his tribe. Many speeches 
followed, the most elo- 
quent and poetic of all 
being that of a young 
brave, who was clad in 
one of the skirts of his 
half-caste wife. 

Not the least insigni- 
ficant item in this ex- 

m.p:s as artists. 



From a Sketch by Sir Charles Di'ke. 

traordinary conference was Poria, the jester, 
whose portrait, drawn on the spot by Sir 
Charles Dilke, is reproduced here. The 
framed picture hangs in one of the spare 
bedrooms of Sir Charles's house in Sloane 
Street, but was lent me for use in this 

While the chiefs of the opposing tribes 
were haranguing their followers, in support 
of their claims, this half-mad buffoon, turned 
for the time being into a kind of self- 
appointed advocatus diaboli, went about inter- 
rupting and mimicking everyone who happened 
to be orating. Nor was Poria's playful spirit 
quelled by the incredible amount of kicking 
and buffeting he received indiscriminately 
from all parties. 

No sooner was the sale definitely settled 
than a solemn grief came over the people. 

" We have sold the graves of our ancestors," 
they said ; a statement that was true only in 
a limited degree, for a large proportion of. 
their ancestors had no grave at all, unless we 
regard as sepulchres the capacious stomachs of 
their cannibal kindred. However this may be, 
the wife of Hamuera created a diversion by 
seizing her husband's greenstone club, and 
rushing out from the ranks of the women in 
order to sing a mournful impromptu song on 
the subject of the "deal" just concluded. 
Sir Charles Dilke also sketched Hamuera's 
wife, and her portrait is given in the accom- 
panying illustration. 

There was a grand war-dance arranged 
next day, when this same Maori belle 
assumed the role of the mad prophetess, 
inciting the warriors with frightful grimaces 
and appalling yells. 


From » Sketch by Sir Charles Dilke,, 

Catching the Mail-Bags. 


By R. H. Cocks. 





HERE are many ways of 
spending an afternoon with 
less pleasure and interest than 
that which I am about to 
relate. Although we all receive 
our letters with but seldom 
varying regularity, there are few perhaps who 
give any thought to the amount of toil 
entailed to gain this end ; and if occasionally 
our despatches do get delayed in transit, we 
censure all concerned, not considering for 
a moment the various 
causes that readily 
account for any such 

Recently it has been 
my object to spend a 
few afternoons at various 
mail-stations on some of 
our great iron roads, and 
cull information con- 
cerning this interesting 
and very important 
branch of postal pro- 
cesses. With this end 
in view, having obtained 
the necessary permits, 
and armed with a relia- 
ble hand-camera, I first 
wended my way to one 
of these mail - stations, 
where the only day mail 
(and this at a some- 

what late hour) thun- 
ders past, catching 
and depositing mail- 

Let us first give a 
passing glance inside 
the station post-office 
before proceeding far- 
ther up the line to the 
apparatus. We see 
here (Fig. i) the empty 
letter-bags hanging in 
readiness to be filled 
and dispatched to their 
various destinations, as 
the name on each will 
indicate, and the mail- 
baskets that are carried 
by ordinary stopping 
trains, containing the 
parcels, etc. We must 
not stay long, as the 
mail is to be up to time to-day, and the 
minutes are slipping by. 

It has been my experience on my several 
visits to find at his post a courteous and 
well-informed postman in charge, who 
invariably arrives some few minutes before 
the mail is signalled. The postman's first 
duty on arriving is generally to open his 
receiving-net — a simple operation, but one 
very easily omitted, to which I shall have 
reason to refer later. This net (Fig. 2), with 






its large rope meshes, looks at first glance 
most complicated, but is in reality a simple 

It is shaped, we may notice, something 
like the letter V, and to prepare it all that 
has to be done is to prop up in a perpen- 
dicular position an iron support resembling a 
gate, which rests parallel with the rails and is 
about 3ft. distant from the net. In Fig. 2 
we see it ready for use, and in Fig. 4 it is 

This "gate " works on a hinge at its base, 
and to close it an iron stay is let fall and the 
"gate" leans inclining 
inwards from the rails 
against a wooden one, 
similar, but immova- 
ble. These "gates" 
hold the receiving-net 

Secondly, the post- 
man (for many of the 
men in charge of this 
day-mail service are 
rural postmen, taking 
this as their last duty 
of the day) straps up 
his bag (Fig. 3), climbs 
and hangs it upon the 
" standards " (Fig. 4). 
The net, it will be 
observed, in the fore- 
ground is here closed. 
These " standards " 
are the iron brackets 

which swing round 
into position for use, 
a catch at their base 
holding them secure. 

After use they are 
always turned inwards 
out of the reach of 
passing trains ; not 
that an ordinary pas- 
senger train would 
strike them, but a 
goods train heavily 
laden probably would 
do so. 

Next we clamber up 
and take a glance at 
the simple catch de- 
vice from which the 
bag is suspended. At 
each mail-station there 
are generally two stan- 
dards, one single and 
one double, the latter 
being used when there 
are more bags to be sent, which is usually 
the case with the night mails. 

This catch is a short bar of about 2in. in 
length, always pointing in the direction 
the train takes. Upon this bar slides the 
thick, solid strap of the bag, a metal tube in 
the leather fitting exactly over it. Then the 
snap, actuated by a powerful spring, retains 
the strap and bag in position. Should, how- 
ever, a gale be blowing at the time, this 
snap is also fastened down with some special 
string used, that there may be no possibility 
of the bag shifting. 




Lastly, we may take a cursory 
glance at this " pouch," as the 
bag is more properly termed, and 
we find it to be a substantial 
leather case opening out flat, with 
four flaps, into which is placed 
the sealed canvas bag which post- 
men usually carry. 

This, then, is rolled up, as in 
Fig. 3, strapped securely, slid 
upon the bar of the " standard," 
and finally swung round into posi- 
tion, as we see it in Fig. 5. 

All being in readiness, the 
postman repairs to his cabin 
close by, and if this mail-station 
is far from a signal-box, there is 
an electric bell in connection, by 
means of which the postman 
signals his readiness, and the 
signalman responds. 

A few brief moments elapse, 
the signals fall, and a distant roar 
is heard of the approaching mail. 


quickly she is in sight and spreads her nets, 
like some winged living thing, and swooping 
down carries off her plunder (Fig. 6). This 
net on the sorting van (which should be 
always next to the locomotive) must not 
be set before the mail train is within 200 
or 300 yards of the " standards," but now 
and again is prepared earlier if the lines are 
clear of passing trains and objects close to 
the metals. 

It is set by a lever within the car, and is 
closed on all sides but that which faces the 
engine, and this offers a wide open space to 
catch the pouches, which at limes are of 


considerable compass and formidable weight. 
The engine has now dashed past the apparatus, 
and the net on the car following slips off 
the bags (Fig. 7), which roll down inside 
the car, wrenching open the snap and 
bursting the string that may have been tied 
round in addition. Simultaneously, an arm 
on the same principle as the stationary 
" standard " springs out some little distance 
off the ground alongside the net (Fig. 7), 
to which is attached the bag to be 
deposited in the net. This pouch, like the 
others, is suspended by a powerful strap, 
which, coming in contact with the cross-piece 
from gate to gate of the net, is released from 
the snap and hurled to the end of 
the net or to the corner of the V, 
the length of the net breaking the 

The whole process of the ex- 
change is but momentary, as the 
mail, represented in Fig. 7, was 
travelling at a mile a minute. This 
I gathered on the most reliable 
authority, and under these condi- 
tions, added to which are other 
difficulties, such as the time of day 
being advanced, when the light is 
weak, enormous vibration, and 
seizing the right moment for ex- 
posure, a good result is anything 
but an easy matter to obtain. 

Lastly, we must take a glimpse 
at the interior of the sorting tender, 
or " serial trawler," as this portion 
of the apparatus has been aptly 




termed (Fig. 8). To secure an illustration 
of this was by no means a light task, for, in 
the first place, the mail makes a brief halt 
of only two minutes, and nearly the whole of 
this time is required for loading up, every 
second being of value to the officials in their 
race against time. Then the lighting of the 
car, being for the most part obtained by 
artificial means, made a rapid execution an 
impossibility, and my sitters were into the 
bargain rather restless. 

All the bags received are here unsealed, 
and their precious contents stamped at the 
rate of sixty per minute (as also the extra 
foreign and Colonial mails on two days in 
the week), the sorters never pausing for a 
moment, whilst quickly scan- 
ning the miscellaneous speci- 
mens of handwriting, and con- 
signing the letters to their re- 
spective pigeon-holes, which, we 
notice, extend the entire length 
of the right side of the car ; the 
receiving net being on the left- 
hand side just behind us. 
These sorters, who work either 
by day or night, are as hard- 
working a body of men as can 
well be found, and they perform 
their duties unostentatiously 
under all manner of trying 
conditions in this oscillating 

But recently it was my mis- 
fortune to be the indirect 
cause of the pouches being 
missed in the receiving-net on 
the ground. The postman got 

chatting, and departed from 
his customary routine of pro- 
cedure on arriving at his post 
(for method and system 
are everything in even so 
apparently a simple device 
as this.) In obliging me, 
by suspending the pouches 
on a standard better 
adapted by its position for 
a photograph, he omitted 
propping up the net ; con- 
sequently the mail dashed 
past, taking his bags safely 
but leaving nothing in re- 

There was no delivery in 
the town that night, or, in 
fact, any of the neighbour- 
ing villages next morning. However, the 
matter was satisfactorily explained to the 
General Post Office officials, who came down 
next day to make inquiries, and the postman 
was quite exonerated. 

The bags were taken direct up to London 
— some fifty miles off, and the matter thus 
reported by tke sorting-van officials. 

The Postmaster -General, as it may be 
remembered, offered some years back a 
substantial sum for any improvement in the 
present method of transferring the bags, but, 
as yet, no suggestion has taken the place of 
this process ; a simple, highly ingenious, and 
at the same time reliable contrivance for 
catching the mails. 


By Brysson Cunningham. 

HE was bewitchingly pretty. 
From her light blue eyes 
flashed the brightest and most 
captivating of glances. Through 
the coral of her lips you could 
just catch at times a glimpse of 
a row of pearls that an empress might envy. 
A wealth of golden curls clustered round her 
fair white forehead, her dainty ears, and 
shapely neck. Her figure was lithe and 
slender. Her carriage was graceful. Her 
fortune was considerable. And her name 
was Ethel Fontaine. 

Ted Eccles pronounced her a little fairy, 
far too good for this rude work-a-day world. 
And he longed to have her all to himself, 
her earthly dross notwithstanding. She was 
a ray of sunshine on his life's dreary pathway, 
his guiding star; these and various other 
metaphors you can compile ad infinitum from 
the sonnets he was in the habit of composing. 
He saw no reason why his suit should not be 
successful if "that ass, Jack Bowles, who 
never seemed to see that he was not wanted, 
would only take himself out of the road, 

and not be such an unmitigated 

Jack Bowles, the gentleman re- 
ferred to, also thought her a jolly 
nice girl. His thoughts ran on lines 
more prosaic than sentimental. He 
gave them vent in a frequently- 
muttered desire to punch the devoted 
head of Mr. Eccles for presuming to 
interfere between himself and the 
affections of Miss Fontaine. 

Outwardly, these two youths 
comported themselves with toler- 
able courtesy. They shook hands, 
chatted together, met one another 
with perfect affability, and only exhibited 
their real sentiments in the privacy of their 
own apartments. Love is responsible for 
a good deal of hate in this world. If we 
love one person to excess, do we not usually 
bestow a counterbalance of dislike on some- 
body else, in order to maintain the equili- 
brium of our affections? Here is material 
for philosophic speculation. 

Miss Ethel was, of course, perfectly aware 
of her attractions. She had ample evidence 
of them every time she consulted a mirror, 
which was not seldom. She quite enjoyed 
being surrounded by a crowd of devoted 
admirers, each on the alert to gratify the 
least of her wishes. She laughed and 
extended her favours with a seemingly care- 
less impartiality, while secretly she took a 
great delight in playing off one suitor against 
another. She knew her power, and wielded 
her sceptre right royally. 

The conversation one evening was apropos 
of poetry in general, and of one of Mr. Ted 
Eccles's effusions in particular. He had com- 
posed a pastoral idyll after the most approved 



classical models, with the reading of which he 
entertained the company. 

" You know, I think we are living in most 
degenerate days," Ethel remarked to Maud 
Eccles, who was seated at her side ; " men 
do nothing nowadays to justify the extrava- 
gant professions they make of undying affec- 
tion, and all that sort of bosh," Here she 
laughed most pitilessly in the poet's face. 
" Why can't men do something to prove 
that they mean what they say ? " 

" Surely, Miss Ethel, you do not class us 
all as hypocrites ? " pleaded Ted, with a 
slight accent on the word "all," as if he 
felt that the remark might not be with- 
out some justification in the case of his 

" Oh, I don't know, I'm sure," she re- 
sponded, archly. " You're all pretty much 
alike. When there's any talking to be done, 
each strives to outdo his neighbour ; but 
there's no great hurry to put all these fine 
speeches into practice." 

" I don't quite understand what you mean," 
interposed Jack Bowles, evidently much 

" Well, I think my meaning plain enough. 
A poet, or, for the matter of that, any 
person in love, or who imagines himself to 
be in love, throws himself 
into a dramatic attitude 
and exclaims that he is 
ready to do anything, go 
anywhere, for the object 
of his devotion and, if 
need be, sacrifice his life 
for her sake ; while, as a 
matter of fact, he wouldn't 
even go without his dinner 
for one day." 

" What would you have 
the poor fellows do ? " 
broke in Maud. " How 
can they die for you when 
they've no opportunity of 
doing so ? " 

" The knights of old 
used to find some way of 
proving their devotion." 

"Oh, yes, Ethel, but 
you forget that we are 
living under different cir- 
cumstances now. A man 
can't nowadays go roam- 
ing round on a warhorse, 
amputating his neigh- 
bours, and wrecking their 
houses in order to gratify 
the whim of his ladye-love. 

Vol. x.— 54. 


We are too prosaic. He would get taken up 
and punished." 

" Well, perhaps so," she pouted ; " but, 
still, men might do something to prove that 
chivalry is not quite dead." 

" Yes, give up smoking, and card-playing, 
and staying out late at nights, perhaps. 
Those are the sacrifices de nos jours." 

"You are always making fun of what I 
say," rejoined Ethel, somewhat piqued. " I 
can't see why each age should not have its 
own form of chivalry, at any rate, in the 
shape of deeds and not words. If a man, 
like the idiotic hero of that idyll, were to 
come to me and say that he was ready to die 
for me, I should want some confirmation of 
his statement before I believed him. If he 
really meant what he said, he would have 
no difficulty in finding an opportunity of 
proving it." 

This fragment of conversation left a great 
impression on the minds of Ted Eccles and 
Jack Bowles. They each regretted that the 
days of knighthood were passed ; that no 
joust or tournament could afford them the 
opportunity of covering themselves with gore 
and glory in honour of Miss Fontaine. Ted's 
fervid imagination pictured himself, as the 
hero of a hundred combats, kneeling at her 
feet to receive the laurel 
crown of victory. Jack 
entertained the conviction 
no less that he would have 
vanquished whole armies 
in such a cause. 

Ted dwelt long on the 
agreeable theme. And 
then there came to him a 
happy inspiration, upon 
which he proceeded to act. 
" Bob," said he to Mr. 
Fontaine's coachman, a 
night or two later, "is 
that brown mare of yours 
restive ? " 

" Quiet as a lamb," was 
the response. 

" But still she could kick 
if you vexed her ? " 

" I daresay," was Bob's 
cautious rejoinder. 

" Well, look here, Bob," 
said Ted, confidentially, 
"I want you to do me a 
favour." Here Bob's fin- 
gers closed over half a 
crown. " I want you to 
assist me to carry out a 
little scheme of mine. 

x WAxcowfB r=c^_ 



Miss Ethel will be going out for a drive 
to-morrow afternoon, and if you could 
manage " — (a wink) — " er — manage to 
make it seem like as if the horse was — er 
— running away, and I was on the 
spot to stop her, I'd give you half a sovereign, 
Bob." Ted hurried over the latter part of 
his explanation somewhat nervously, and 
awaited the reply with apprehension. 

Bob looked mystified, as indeed he was. 

Ted explained again. 

" You see, Bob, I don't want Miss Ethel 
to run any danger," he added, " but I'd like 
her to see me ready to risk my life for her. 
It wouldn't take much to make believe that 
the horse was running away, and you could 
shout and yell, and I'd be ready to rush 
forward and stop the blamed thing." 

It took some little time for Bob to see the 
affair in all its bearings. At last, however, 
after much persuasion, he consented, for the 
sake of a sovereign, to carry out a runaway 
incident with as little danger as possible to 
Miss Fontaine, and as much glory as possible 
to Mr. Eccles. 

The next afternoon the latter was strolling, 
to all appearances accidentally, along a 
country lane, when he saw a carriage coming 
in his direction at a very unusual speed. The 
coachman on the box seemed to have taken 
temporary leave of his senses. He was 
gesticulating like a lunatic, and yelling at the 
top of his voice for help. A young lady 
clung, white and terrified, to the carriage 

Ted- braced himself together for an heroic 
effort. He jammed his hat firmly down on 
his brow and, as the mare dashed up, breath- 
less and foaming, spurred to unusual exertions 
by the erratic outcries of the son of Nimshi, 
he bounded forward and, flinging his arms 
round the astonished animal's head, speedily 
brought her to a standstill. 

Then he rushed to the carriage door and 
assisted the agitated Miss Fontaine to alight. 
Bob had done his work so well that she sank 
trembling into his arms. 

" What a shame ! " he thought to himself, 
as he looked down on her pale and pretty 
face. For a moment he despised himself for 
the trick he had played upon her. The next 
the self- accusation was forgotten in the 
delicious sensation of bearing her in his arms. 
A great longing came over him to stoop 
down and kiss her. But while he hesitated 
she recovered. Her colour rapidly returned 
and, gently disengaging herself, she lifted a 
pair of grateful eyes upon him and ex- 
claimed : — 

" Oh, Ted, how brave and good you have 
been ! What would have become of us if you 
had not stopped us ? " 

" We should ha' been smashed to smithe- 
reens," said Bob, solemnly. He was faithfully 
carrying out his contract ; all the more so as 
he had a tender feeling for Mary, the house- 
maid, and the sight of Eccles gallantly 
supporting his young mistress had awakened 
all the romance and sympathy in his nature. 

Ted felt uncomfortable, and a slight blush 
of shame passed over his face, which Ethel 
attributed to a feeling of modesty. She sat 
down on the bank at the roadside, to recover 
from the effects of her fright. Then Bob 
inquired about returning home. The mare 
was now standing perfectly unconcerned, and 
quite in accordance with her lamb -like 
character. But Ethel absolutely declined to 
return in the carriage. So Bob drove off 
alone, and Ted, with very pleasurable 
emotions, escorted her by the pathway across 
the fields to her father's house. 

He smiled to himself with inward satisfac- 
tion several times during the course of that 
evening, and expressed his delight at having 
" put a spoke in old Bowles's wheel." 

Of course the incident was soon noised 
abroad, with rapidly accumulating details. 
Ted found himself the centre of an admiring 
circle, and, what he prized more highly, 
decidedly in preference with Miss Ethel. 

Much to Jack's disgust, not being a poet, 
he was unable to pour forth his woes in 
metrical form ; but he renewed his determi- 
nation to punch Mr. Eccles's head on the 
first convenient occasion. Why should 
fortune be so partial to Ted ? He flattered 
himself that he could have rescued Ethel 
just as well and better than " that fool 
Eccles," if he had only had the good luck to 
be on the spot. He railed at Dame Fortune 
and her caprices. But all to no purpose. 
Ted had decidedly got the better of him. 

Suddenly there flashed across his mind an 
idea which almost took his breath away. 

" By Jove ! " he exclaimed, " I'll be even 
with that numskull yet." And he proceeded 
to elaborate his plan with much reflection 
and repeated expressions of satisfaction. It 
resulted in the following incident : — 

A week later Miss Fontaine was directing 
her steps along the self-same pathway across 
the fields which she had so lately traversed 
in the company of Mr. Eccles. She was 
attended only by Tommy, a strapping lad of 
fifteen, who performed odd domestic jobs in 
the Fontaine household. Miss Fontaine 
had an old pensioner, a bedridden woman, 



whose cottage she was in the habit of visiting 
periodically. On these occasions Tommy 
carried a basket containing jellies and other 
delicacies for the invalid. 

The pathway was solitary, and in one part 
skirted the edge of a thicket. It was just at 
this point that Miss Fontaine found herself, 
to her dismay, suddenly confronted by six 
sturdy ruffians, armed with cudgels, who 
demanded charity in tones as plausible as 
their gestures were menacing. Tommy, not 
by any means a brave youth, dropped his 
basket and fled across the empty fields, 
shrieking for help. The thought of pursuit 
lent wings to his feet, and he tumbled head- 
long over the first stile into a dry ditch, where 
he lay breathless and too frightened to move. 

Miss Fontaine was by nature timid, but, 
left alone in the face of imminent danger, she 
did not lose her presence of mind. As 
calmly as possible she handed her purse to 
the men and sought, not without much 
inward trepidation, to pursue her way. A 
dozen hands were instantly laid upon her, 

At this moment, Mr. Jack Bowles came 
tearing along the path at his utmost speed. 


He dashed headlong into the group, upset 
one man with the impetus of his charge, drove 
his fists into the faces of the second and third, 
and then, thrusting Miss Fontaine aside, 
commenced a vigorous onslaught on the re- 
maining three. A severe struggle lasted for 
several minutes, in which blows and muttered 
curses succeeded one another without inter- 
mission. Then, just as it seemed that Jack 
would have to yield to superior numbers, the 
whole body of ruffians suddenly took flight, 
leaving him master of the field, with a torn 
coat and a generally disordered attire. 

The victor turned to Miss Fontaine, who 
had been anxiously awaiting the issue of the 
doubtful conflict. He took her tenderly by 
the arms, and, with eyes full of concern, 
inquired if she had been hurt. 

Poor Ethel was too overcome to make any 
reply. Her breath came and went in fitful 
sobs, and she was evidently on the verge of an 
hysterical attack. Jack drew her to his side 
and soothed her as only a devoted lover could. 
Then, as she grew calmer, she poured forth 
her thanks in such broken and grateful 
language, that he felt himself to be a dis- 
graceful brute for having caused her so 

much distress. 
He picked up 
her basket and 
gloves, and 
slowly escorted 
her home. 
Tommy, find- 
ing that no one 
pursued him, 
had also made 
the best of his 
way thither, and 
had arrived five 
minutes pre- 
viously with an 
exaggerated ac- 
count of the 
murder of Miss 
Ethel by a gang 
of ruffians. The 
whole house- 
hold was in 
when they ar- 
rived on the 
scene. They 
were welcomed 
with lively de- 
monstrations of 
affection, and 
when Ethel 
narrated the 



story of Jack's prowess, that modest gentle- 
man was overwhelmed with praise and 

He returned home that evening brimful of 
delight and satisfaction at the success of his 
plot. He had need to be, for it cost him 
several pounds to assuage the feelings and 
mollify the hurts of his hired " villains." 

Ted's exploit was now put altogether in 
the shade, and he was highly wroth in conse- 
quence. Miss Ethel's lady friends all agreed 
that the encounter with six desperate ruffians 
and their defeat single-handed was a far more 
heroic performance than the stopping of a 
runaway horse. Jack was set up on the 
pedestal lately occupied by Ted, and Miss 
Ethel's favours veered round in the direction 
of her later deliverer. 

But Ted was not going to let matters rest 
here. His fertile imagination speedily evolved 
another exploit to recover his lost glory. 
During the next few weeks Miss Ethel led a 
most exciting and precarious existence. She 
seemed to be under a perpetual sword of 
Damocles. Hardly a day passed but she 
was in some perilous situation, from which 
she was only rescued in the nick of time by 
the prowess of one or other of her lovers. 
A burglarious entry into her father's house 
was discovered and checked by Eccles. A 
midnight fire, whose origin was a mystery, 
gave Bowles the opportunity of mounting to 
her bedroom and carrying her off, amid clouds 
of smoke and shouts of applause. Eccles 
dragged her from under the feet of a cab- 
horse, whose reckless driver was certainly not 
above the suspicion of having tracked her 
along the streets for several days. Bowles was 
just in time to prevent her being gored by an 
infuriated bull while crossing the fields. 
And so on, turn by turn, each rival consti- 
tuted himself her guardian angel at some 
critical juncture. And each adventure 
became more alarming than the last. Miss 
Ethel's latest escape was the general topic 
of conversation. People wondered at her 
extraordinary career. Insurance agents 
looked askance on her father's prudent 
efforts to take out a policy on her life. She 
herself began to find life a very uncertain 
quantity and far too exciting to be enjoyable. 
Poor girl, she longed for the old, uneventful 
days, when her existence flowed smoothly 
and sweetly along like the tide of a summer 
stream. The Fates now seemed determined 
to put an end to her, and, balked in one 
direction, they immediately resumed their 
attempts in another. 

Matters came to a crisis at last. The 

competition could not possibly go on for 
ever, and Ted Eccles determined to make 
one decisive stroke, which should " settle the 
hash of that ass, Bowles," once and for all. 

There was to be a picnic on the river in a 
few days. Ted's ready invention gave birth 
to the idea of a thrilling rescue of Ethel from 
a watery grave. He thought the matter 
carefully over, and laid down a scheme as 
feasible as possible. He then strolled down 
to see Jim, the boatman. 

Jim was the owner of some light river 
craft, and he had undertaken the duties 
of pilot and oarsman in the forthcoming 

Very cautiously Ted explained to him the 
object of his mission. Nevertheless, Jim was 
considerably astounded at the audacity of a 
proposal to upset a whole boat-load of people 
into the water. It took him several minutes 
to grasp the fact of Ted's sanity. He shook 
his head very determinedly. 

"Nay, nay, sir ; thee's not going to get me 
hung for murder." 

" But, Jim, I want you to do it in some 
shallow place, where nobody will get 

"Can't be done, sir," said Jim, emphati- 
cally. "Think o' my reppitation." 

Ted pleaded and persisted. He offered 
bribe after bribe on an increasing scale. Jim 
was obdurate. Still Ted waxed more impor- 
tunate. With the offer of a ten-pound note 
Jim wavered. It was a sum not lightly to be 
rejected. He reflected a minute or two and 
then remarked, tentatively : — 

" It's only Miss Ethel as you wants to 
rescy ? " 

"That's all, Jim." 

" Well, what about th' others ? " 

This was a poser. Ted had not troubled 
himself about the fate of the remainder of 
the party. " Oh, they'll manage to scramble 
out some way or other," he said, off- 

" Look ye here, sir," said Jim, thoughtfully, 
" seeing as it's only Miss Ethel as you wants 
to rescy, it's no use upsetting the whole boat- 
load. Besides, that 'ud be too big a job. 
How'd it be if Miss Ethel was persuaded to 
go for a bit of a row after the others had got 
out ; and then, seeing as you wish it pertickler, 
I might manage to tip her in, nice and quiet 
like, close agen the side, so as there'd be no 
danger ? " 

"The very thing !" exclaimed Ted, grasp- 
ing Jim's horny hand in his enthusiasm. 

It was arranged then for the sum of ^io 
C£5 down and jQ% on completion of con- 



l v 7Axcow?-.» r^ . 


tract), that Jim was to offer to indulge Miss 
Fontaine's well-known penchant for rowing, 
and by this means take her farther up the 
river than the rest of the party ; and then, 
having reached the selected spot, to sink or 
overturn the boat in a skilfully accidental 
manner, so that Mr. Eccles, who would be at 
hand, might plunge in and obtain all the 
credit of her rescue. 

Ted took his leave. Scarcely an hour 
elapsed before Jack Bowles popped into 
Jim's workshop. 

He also had a communication to make to 
the astonished boatman. It was none other 
than the identical scheme of his previous 
visitor. Jim stared at first. He wondered 
if everybody was going crazy. Then he 
decided to keep his own counsel. He 
listened attentively to Jack's exposition of 
the plot, raised various objections, and finally 
allowed himself to be persuaded into an 
arrangement with him on the same terms as 
with Ted Eccles. 

As Jack closed the door behind him, Jim 
remarked, sententiously : — 

" The work's well paid as is twice paid. 
Well, I've no objection to twenty quid. As 
for them, they can fight it out who has her — 
it's none of my business." 

The day of the picnic was a glorious one, 
as all days should be. Not a cloud broke 

the vast expanse of blue overhead. The 
river flowed clear and limpid, dreamily re- 
flecting the panorama of foliage extending 
along its banks. The party set out in the 
bsst of spirits for a day's enjoyment. 

Ted Eccles took his station behind a tree, 
close to the river's brim. He was not aware 
that Jack Bowles had ensconced himself 
behind a similar tree on the opposite bank. 
Neither was Jack conscious of the proximity 
of his rival. 

They waited while the minutes dragged 
slowly along. Each kept an anxious watch 
on the nearest bend in the stream. And, at 
last, their patience was rewarded by the sight • 
of the skiff containing Ethel and Jim. Ethel, 
dressed all in white, with her hat off and her 
golden curls flashing in the sunlight, was 
gracefully dipping her oars into the gliding- 
tide. All unconscious of her impending fate, 
she dreamily contemplated the cool and 
shady creeks as they passed along. The 
harder toil devolved upon Jim, whose sturdy 
stroke carried the boat forward with a steady 
momentum. With thoughts full of coming 
events, he cast furtive glances at the various 
landmarks as they came in view. 

At length the boat drew abreast of the 
chosen spot. Ted and Jack scarcely breathed 
as they saw Jim, unnoticed by Ethel, skil- 
fully withdraw a plug from the bottom of the 
boat There was a moment's intense silence. 
Jim had resumed his oars. Then the dreamy 
look suddenly vanished from Ethel's face, and 
she started to her feet. 

" Oh, Jim, quick, the boat's sprung a 
leak!" Jim leaped up, too, and, in doing so, 
caused the boat to lose its equilibrium. It 
overturned both its occupants into the 

Now was the moment. Both rivals plunged 
into the water with one impulse. Both were 
excellent swimmers, and reached the over- 
turned boat in a few vigorous strokes. Then, 
for the first time, they became aware of each 
other's presence. 

Ted, with his arm round Ethel's waist, 
glared with astonishment and anger at Jack. 
The latter reciprocated the glare with interest. 
Ted felt that he was being defrauded out of 
his legitimate laurels. Jack felt that his pet 
scheme was being frustrated by the malignity 
of his foe. Angry blood surged through 
their veins. 

Ted was for bearing the clinging Ethel to 
his side of the river ; Jack had the intention 
no less of taking her to his side, in spite of 
Ted Eccles or any other mortal. He caught 
her by the arm. 



" Let go," spluttered Ted. " She's mine. 
I got her first ! " 

" You be hanged ! " ejaculated Jack, fired 
with indignation. 

" Let go, I tell you," screamed Ted. 

"I'll smash your head for you," was the 

" Let go, you scoundrel ! " 

'•' Go to blazes, you idiot ! " 

Ted raised his arm and struck Jack 
violently in the face. In doing so he lost his 
hold of Ethel, who, shrieking with fright, 
drifted away down stream. Fortunately Jim 
was at hand. He overtook her before she 
had gone far and conveyed her safely to 
shore, more frightened than hurt. 

Meanwhile the fight waxed furious. The 
blow maddened Jack ; the loss of Ethel 
infuriated Ted. Closely interlocked, they 
floundered about in the water, now one 
uppermost, now the other, striking, parrying, 
splashing, blowing, plunging, and spluttering, 

like a couple of great fish in mortal combat. 
Ethel's shrieks had attracted the attention of 
the picnic party, and the banks were soon 
lined with interested spectators. Jack and 
Ted, heedless of everything save each other's 
existence, fought on like maniacs. In vain 
the crowd shouted to them ; they neither 
heard nor cared. 

The duel must have 
or other of them was 
not Jim, in a moment 
cured a boat-hook from an adjoining cottage, 
with which he hooked the combatant who 
first floundered within reach. This happened 
to be Ted, and he was fished out of the water 
by main force, amid the cheers and laughter 
of the onlookers. Jack had no alternative 
but to follow, sheepishly. 

The curtain must now in charity be drawn 
upon the crestfallen rivals. They both lost 
Ethel. She, to put an end to her perilous 
adventures, married another fellow. 

continued until one 
hors de combat had 
of inspiration, pro- 

One Years Hard Cash. 

By J. Holt Schooling.* 

(Fellow of the Royal Statistical Society, etc.) 

ROM time to time there have 
been printed in magazines 
descriptive accounts of the 
Royal Mint as regards the 
working processes by which 
our supply of change — from 
five-pound pieces to farthings — is manufac- 
tured and distributed. But, so far as I 
know, there has never been prepared any 
concise account of the extent of the Mint's 
operations as regards its output of hard cash, 
nor any attempt to show these, in some in- 
stances, astounding results in a form that 
enables them to be readily understood by us in 
whose pockets jingle the coined results of 
the work of a very industrious department of 
the State. Let us then consider the working 
of the Royal Mint from a fresh point of view, 
and see what we can make of the facts placed 
at the disposal of everyone by a man who 
literally "coins money" — the Deputy-Master 
of Her Majesty's Mint. 

Diagrams Nos. i, 2, and 3 relate to our 
modern coinage only. No. 1 illustrates the 
proportions of gold, silver, and bronze coins, 
respectively, to the coins made during the 
ten years 1885-94. Here are the actual 
figures upon which No. 1 has been based : — 

Number of Per- 

Pieces. centages. 

Gold coinage during years 1885-94 72,477,708 or i5'5 per cent. 
Silver ,, ,, ,, 192,139,058 or 41 '1 „ 

Bronze ,, ,, ,, 202,531,840 or 43'4 „ 

Total number of coins made"! , , , 

during the ten years 1885-94/467.148,606 1000 

We cannot, of course, assume that these 
results for the ten years 1885-94 also 
represent the proportions of gold, silver, and 
bronze coins respectively to the whole exist- 
ing coinage of this country, because the 
number of coins of each class now in circu- 
lation can only be estimated, whereas the 
above results are the actual Mint figures for 
the period stated. They show us what has 
been the coinage of gold, silver, and bronze 
coins respectively during an appreciably long 
span of the Mint's operations, and we see 
that the number of bronze coins is nearly 
three times as large as the number of gold 
coins, the pieces of silver coined being nearly 
as numerous as the pieces of bronze. (See 
No. 1.) 

When we deal with the respective values 
of the three groups of coins — see No. 2 — 
we obtain results very different from those 
which relate to the respective numbers of 
gold, silver, and bronze coins. The figures 

* Copyright by John Holt Schooling, 1895. 

upon which diagram No. 2 has been com- 

puted are 

Gold coinage during years 1885-94 
Silver ,, ,, ,, 

Bronze „ ,, „ 

Face-Value. Percentages. 

57,671,768 or 83 - 9 per cent. 
10,439,823 or 15-2 „ 
584,416 or o'9 ,, 

1,007 100 "o 

Total face-value of coins made\ 
during the ten years 1885-94 / 

The face-value of the silver and bronze 
coinage is considerably greater than the actual 
value of the metal of which these coins are 
made. In fact, as regards the silver coinage, 
an " unofficial " coiner might almost be 
tempted to buy silver at the present market 
price and make good coins of it, at a profit, if 
he could work on a large scale, and if he 
could dispose of his wares when coined. The 
cost of the silver bullion for these coins, 
whose face-value is stated at ^10,439,823, 
was very little more than one-half of this 
amount, so that, in round figures, the Mint 
makes a yearly profit of half a million 
sterling upon the silver coinage. The 

III.— Bronze coins : 43J per 100. 
No. i. — Each of the above three large circles represents 
One Hundred Coins of the Realm. The little discs inside 
each of the three circles show, by their number, the respective 
quamities in every one hundred coins, of : — /. Pieces of Gold. 
II. Pieces of Silver. III. Pieces of Bronze. [Computed on 
the whole coinage for the ten years 1885-94. ] 



This diagram No. 3 illustrates the respective 
weights of the three groups of coins, and it 
has been based on the following figures : — ■ 

III. — Bronze coins in black. 
No. 2. — Each of the above circles represents the face-value 
of the "Moneys of the Realm" coined and delivered into 
Store at the Royal Mint during One Year. [Computed on the 
average yearly coinage for the ten years 1885—94.] The 
black part of each circle represents the face-value of: — /. 
Gold Coins. II. Silver Coins. III. Bronze Coins. 

value of the bronze coins is relatively so 
small, that in parts I. and II. of diagram 
No. 2 their value shows only as a very 
narrow white streak, and in part III. as a 
very narrow black streak. Moreover, the 
percentage o'o above is a little too high 
for the value of the bronze coins, and the 
percentage 83 w g is a little too low for the 
value of the gold coins — these are, however, 
the nearest figures within the limits of 
precision shown by the little tabular state- 
ment just given. Concerning the profit 
made by selling the bronze coinage at its 
face-value, the amount paid by the Mint for 
bronze bullion [during the ten years 1885- 
94, to which the coined value of ^584,416 
relates] was only ^97,747, or (say) a cost to 
the Mint of only ;£i6 to ,£17 for the metal 
composing every ;£ioo worth of bronze coin 
made : a very profitable business. 

The see-saw between gold and bronze, 
with silver sitting in the middle to keep 
things steady, is further illustrated by No. 3, 
where gold — as in No. 1 — has again to go 
down bottom while bronze comes up top. 

Gold coinage during the years iS 
Silver „ ,, 

Bronze ,. „ 

Tons. Percentage. 
.... 453*4 or 15*1 percent. 
...1,162*1 or 38*6 ,, 
...1,392*0 or 46*3 „ 

Total weight in tons of coins made \ 

during the ten years 1885-94.!. /3>°°7 S 1000 

We see that on the score of weight the 
bronze coinage outstrips the gold coinage 
still more than on the score of " number of 
pieces" — see No. i and. the tabular statement 
about the number of coins made. The 
weight of the bronze coins is more than 
three times the weight of the gold coins, and, 
for the third time, silver occupies the middle 
place between gold and bronze : compare 
diagrams i, 2, and 3. 

It may be of interest if I give here a 
condensed summary of the coinage during 
the ten years 1885-94, and which splits 

III. — Bronze coins in black. 
No. 3. — Each of the above circles represents the weight 
in tons of the "Moneys of the Realm " coined and delivered 
into Store at the Royal Mint during One Year. {Computed 
on the average yearly coinage for the ten years 18S5- 94. ] 
The black part of each circle represents the weight in 
tons of : — /. Gold Coins. II. Silver Coins. III. Bronze Coins. 

up some of the results already quoted 
for gold, silver, and bronze, respectively, 
into the results for each different coin. 
Here it is : — 



Moneys of the Realm coined and delivered into Store 
in the Mint office, from the 1st day of January, 
1885, to the 31st day of December, 1894. 

Number of Face- Value. 

Gold Coinage. Pieces. £ 

Five-pound pieces 73,360 366,800 

Two-pound pieces 135,064 270,128 

Sovereigns 41,800,397 41,800,397 

Half-sovereigns 30,468,887 15,234,443 

Total 1885-94 72,477,708 .£57,671,768 

Silver Coinage. 

Crowns 4,885,848 1,221,462 

Double-florins 2,689,830 537,966 

Half-crowns 20,792,024 2,599,003 

Florins 15,061,860 1,506,186 

Shillings 53,143,200 2,657,160 

Sixpences 57,903,120 1,447,578 

Threepences 37,341,216 466,765 

Fourpences — Maundy 169,896 2,832 

Twopences — Maundy 57,° 2 4 475 

Pence — Maundy 95,040 396 

. 192,139,058 £10,439,823 

how many coins of the value named there 
are in every 100 coins made ; and this 
set of twelve squares, viewed as one con- 
secutive series, indicates the respective 
degrees of popularity of the gold, silver, 
and bronze pieces of our coinage. [No. 4 has 
been calculated on the whole coinage of the 
Royal Mint during the ten years, 1885-94.] 

It is certainly interesting to note the 
following sequence of our coins as regards 
their popularity : — 

Total, 1885-9 
Bronze Coinage. 

Pence 93,219,840 

Halfpence 78,848,000 

Farthings 30,464,000 


tne twelve large squares 
show, by their number, 

Vol. x. - 55. 

P^_ i _ 

LI- i 

u ■ • 

It, . ■ > 

p m * 

tt ■ • 

EZ • 

rt« « » 

! 1 I' 

1 » » 



Total, 1885-94 202,531,840 ,£584,416 

Grand Total, 1885-94 467,148,606 £68,696,007 

[Note. — In the Face-Value column 

the results have been shown to the 

nearest pound, .n order to avoid 

shillings and pence.] 

The above statement 
refers to the coinage for 
the ten years 1885-94, so 
that by dividing any of 
these results by ten, we 
may at once obtain the 
yearly figures which relate 
to our One Year's Hard 

I have done a little 
sleight-of-hand with the 467 
millions of coins just de- 
tailed in the column headed 
Number of Pieces, and have 
embodied the results in 
diagram No. 4, called The 
Popularity of the Penny. 
Coins, like every other 
commodity, are subject to 
the tides of demand and 
supply, and we may be 
quite sure that nothing but 
an incessant demand for 
pence would cause the 
Mint -to turn them out in 
such quantities that they 
easily take the first place in 
this diagram, which may 
be explained thus : — 

Each of the twelve large 
squares in No. 4, numbered 
I. to XII., represents one 
hundred coins of the realm. 
The black discs in each of 
the twelve large 

1. The Penny. 

2. The Halfpenny. 

3. The Sixpence. 

4. The Shilling. 

5. The Sovereign. 

6. The Threepence. 

7. The Half-sovereign. 

8. The Farthing. 

9. The Half-crown. 

10. The Florin. 

11. The Crown. 

12. Other Coins : these include, 
in the order stated, the 
double-florin, the Maundy 
fourpence, the two-pound 
piece, the Maundy penny, 
the five-pound piece, and 
the Maundy twopence. 

Diagram No. 4 shows graphically, and also 
by numerical statement, the extent of the 
difference between the popularity of each 

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No. 4. — The Popularity of the Penny. — For description see text. 



coin, from the popular twenty pennies in 
every ioo coins, to the solitary crown-piece 
in every ioo coins — gold, silver, and bronze. 
Curiously enough, the half-sovereign and the 
farthing are equally popular : both coins 
thrive to the extent of 6*5 in every 100 coins 

Apropos of farthings, I had occasion while 
I was preparing this account of the coinage 
to use a quantity of farthings for a certain 
calculation, and I experienced more difficulty 
in getting them than if I had wanted an 
equal number of half-sovereigns. The Bank 
was unable to supply any coin below the 
halfpenny, and, being advised to " try the 
drapers," I mustered my courage, and in reply 
to the obsequious question of many shop- 
walkers : "What is your pleasure, sir?" meekly 
replied, " Five shillings' worth of farthings, 
please, or as many as you can let me have."' 
I don't remember ever to have seen im- 
portant-looking men so much taken aback 
by a simple statement, and I could not 
get any farthings "at the drapers'." At 
last I unearthed a lot at a sweetstuff 
shop, but the difficulty I had to get those 
farthings proved to me that they really 
do not deserve a degree of popularity 
higher than that eighth place which they 
occupy in No. '4 diagram. If I could, I 
would have placed the farthing among 
" other coins," right at the tail of the list 
— the getting of those I wanted bothered 
me so, and I believe the people thought 
I wanted to gild them, and pass them as 
half-sovereigns. I always look the other 
way now when I meet those insulted shop- 

Taking this vast total of 467 millions 
of coins made in ten years, and allowing 
300 working days in each year and 10 
working hours in each day, no fewer than 
15,572 new pieces of money are made in 
every hour, or just on 260 new coins per 
minute ! An astonishing result, especially 
when we note that excessive care is given 
to each of the many operations, and that 
many freshly made coins are rejected 
during one stage of their examination on 
account of trivial defects which disqualify 
them from ranking as good pieces. These 
rejected coins are not included among the 
467 millions just mentioned; they are 
sent back to the melting-pot, for it is con- 
sidered cheaper to make them all over 
again than to touch them up by hand with 
files, etc., as is done in some countries, in 
order to make faulty coins comply with 
the stringent regulations as to weight, etc. 

The Supremacy of the Penny shown by 
No. 4 suggested to me that a more extended 
investigation of our bronze coinage might 
lead to some interesting results. Therefore, 
I obtained the facts relating to bronze money 
for the whole period of its coinage, i.e., from 
the first issue on December 17, i860, to 
December 31, 1894. During the thirty-four 
years' existence of bronze money, its issue 
from the Mint has been as follows : — ■ 

Number of Pieces. Face- Value. Weight. 

£ Tons. 

Pence 356,882,400 1,487,010 S^o 

Halfpence 299,162,400 623,255 1,669 

Farthings 121,534,080 126,598 339 

Total 777,578,880 £2, 236,863 5,327 

[These quantities include the 1,700 to 1,800 tons of bronze 
coin made by two Birmingham firms, under the superintendence 
of officers of the Mint, when, in i860, the substitution of bronze 
for copper money necessitated a very large coinage during a 
short time.] 

The results just stated may astonish some 
readers who are able to grasp the meaning of 

IV. III. 1. 11. 

No. 5. — Our Supply of " Coppers." — For description see text. 



SCALE .jtlpoo ifyals- 

such a large number as 777^2 millions of 
bronze coins, but they will not convey much 
meaning to the majority. Therefore, I have 
thrown these results into the graphic form 
exhibited by No. 5 — Our Supply of Coppers 
— which may be described thus : — ■ 

Part I. of this diagram represents the Monument, 
202ft. high, which is the scale of the drawing. 

Fart II. of No. 5 is a solid square tower, con- 
sisting of ten thousand vertical columns of pennies, 
each column being 1841ft. high : this tower of 
pence is 10ft. iin. square. 

Part III. is a solid square tower consisting of 
ten thousand vertical columns of halfpence, each 
column being 138^. high : this tower of halfpence 
is 8ft. 4^in. square. 

Part IV. is a solid square tower consisting of ten 
thousand vertical columns of farthings, each column 
being 494ft. high : this tower of farthings is 
6ft. 8in. square. 

Parts II., III., and IV. of No. 5 have been carefully 
computed, and then drawn to the scale of the height 
of the Monument, and this extraordinary quantity of 
bronze money has been issued by the Royal Mint 
since the introduction of 
the bronze coinage in the 
year i860 up to the 31st 
December, 1894. The 
face- value of these three 
towers of bronze coin is 
nearly 2\ millions sterling ; 
they contain more than 
777i millions of coins, 
and they weigh 5,327 tons ! 

This, then, is the 
meaning, exactly de- 
scribed, of the great 
towers of " coppers " 
seen in No. 5 ; and, 
truly, the results as- 
tonished even me, 
who calculated and 
drew them. 

In diagram No. 6 
we have a contrast 
between the values of 
gold, silver, and bronze 
coins, respectively, 
that makes our pence 
look rather small, des- 
pite their gigantic pro- 
portions exhibited by 
No. 5. Parts I., II., 
and III. of No. 6 re- 
present the face-value 
of one ton of gold, 
silver, and bronze 
coins, respectively. 
The little square at 
the top of No. 6 re- 
presents the value of 
one thousand pounds 
sterling, and it here 
serves as a scale of 

LI.— The Value of One TYn of Silver Coins, £8, 

III.— The Value of One Ton of Bronze Coina, £420. 

No. 6. — Parts I., II., and III. of this diagram represent the 
face-value in Pounds Sterling — i.e., the nominal value — of 
One Ton of Gold, Silver, and Bronze coins, respectively. The 
little square above Part I. represents the value of One Thousand 
Pounds Sterling, and it here serves as a scale of measurement. 

measurement. As regards the value (^420) 
of one ton of bronze coin, this has been com- 
puted on the coinage during 1885-94, 
and it is liable to some variation for 
the following reason. When the bronze 
money was first authorized, in order that the 
penny might not be inconveniently large, or 
the halfpenny and farthing too small, the 
latter coins were ordered to be of greater 
weight than the half and the fourth 
part of the penny, respectively. From 
this discrepancy it follows that the value 
of one ton of bronze coin may possibly vary 
from the ^420 stated, but, as this value is 
based on the results of ten years' work, it 
is probable that it fairly represents the pro- 
portions of pence, halfpence, and farthings 
that go to make up a ton of bronze money. 
Incidentally, I may remark that one ounce 
avoirdupois is equal in weight to three 
pennies, five halfpennies, or ten farthings, 
and this statement 

, shows that the penny 

is too light in propor- 
tion to the halfpenny 
and the farthing, and 
that these two coins 
are correctly propor- 
tioned in weight. No 
one need be in want 
of an ounce letter- 
weight if three pennies, 
or five halfpennies, or 
ten farthings be at 
hand. The gold and 
the silver coins, re- 
spectively, are all 
correctly proportioned 
to each other as re- 
gards weight. 

A millionaire might 
be termed an eight- 
tonner, for one million 
sterling weighs nearly 
eight tons ; the few 
thousand sovereigns 
over the million which 
are necessary to make 
up exactly eight tons' 
weight are not of much 
importance to a mil- 
lionaire. One million 
sovereigns weigh 
(avoirdupois) 7 tons 
17 cvvt. 2 61b. iooz. 
95 grains, and if cast 
into a solid mass so 
as to make a cube of 
gold, such cube would 



No. 7. — " Worth her Weight in Gold." [Fourteen stone, 
at £3 us. per ounce avoirdupois=£i 1,133.] 

measure only a mere trifle over 4ft. each 
way : so that a million of gold can be 
packed into a little case that may nearly 
be spanned by a longish walking-stick — 
but as this little case would weigh nearly 
eight tons, it would, like my volumes of 
" Cruden's Concordance," be protected from 
burglars by reason of its own heaviness. 

By the way, talking about weight, the 
female shown in No. 7 was once represented 
to me as being " worth her weight in gold." 
The fact was mentioned to me by the lady 
herself, at a registry office, where I once 
attended for the purpose of selecting a good 
plain cook. She said that her late mistress 
said she was " worth her weight in gold," and 
so, feeling doubtful as to whether I ought to 
engage such a treasure, I took the trouble 
to make the calculation whose result is 
printed beneath No. 7. When I found 
that this good lady was worth more than 
^£i 1,000 sterling, I did 
in engaging her at ^18 
wages are not fair interest on the 
employed. So when people talk 

not feel justified 
per annum ; such 

other people, or themselves, being worth 
their weight in gold, you can use this 
result in No. 7 as a reliable gauge of their 
intrinsic worth ; if for your convenience you 
take it at (say) ,£800 per stone-weight, you 
will be sufficiently near the mark, for all 
practical purposes. 

At last the slang word " dollar " for a 
crown-piece is to be justified by the coining 
of a genuine British dollar — and a very fine 
coin it is (see No. 8). 

At the Court at Osborne House, Isle of Wight, the 
2nd day of February, 1895. 

Present : The Queen's Most Excellent Majesty, 
Lord President, Marquess of Ripon, Lord Chamber- 
lain, Lord Kensington, Mr. Cecil Rhodes. 

Whereas it is expedient to provide for the coinage 
of a British silver dollar for circulation in Our Colonies 
of the Straits Settlements, Hong Kong, and Labuan, 
and elsewhere ; 

Now, therefore, We, by and with the advice of Our 
Privy Council, and by virtue of all powers vested in 
Us in that behalf, do hereby order as follows : — 

(1.) A British dollar shall be coined under the 
direction of the Master of Our Mint, or at one of Our 
Mints in British India, and be of the metal, weight, 
and fineness specified in the Schedule to this Order. 

(2.) Such dollar shall have for the obverse impres- 
sion the figure of Britannia standing upon a rock in 
the sea, her right hand holding a trident and her left 
hand resting on a shield, with a ship in the distance 
and the inscription " One Dollar " and the date of the 
year, the whole surrounded by a Chinese ornamental 
border ; and for the reverse impression, surrounded 
by a similar border, a scroll pattern with the Chinese 
labyrinth in the centre, and the value of the piece, in 
Chinese and Malay characters respectively, arranged 
crosswise within the scroll. 

No. 8. — The British Dollar lately designed for 
circulation in the East. [Shown by permission of 
the Deputy Master of the Royal Mint. For 
description see text.] 



Such, with a few trivial omissions, is the 
wording of the Royal Order authorizing the 
coining of a British silver dollar. The 
facsimile of it in No. 8 is larger than the 
original coin, which has a diameter of i^in., 
and weighs 416 grains, or less than one ounce 
avoirdupois (437^ grains). The "Chinese 
labyrinth in the centre " is thoroughly Chinese 
in the sense of being radically different from 
anybody else's labyrinth — 
there's no way in to the 
middle, nor out of it ! 
The hieroglyphics on the 
reverse side of the dollar 
stand for "one dollar," 
the Chinese characters 
occupying the upper and 
lower quarters of the scroll, 
while the corresponding 
Malay characters are to the 
right and left. It is well 
to mention this to avoid 
any mistakes, and, as the 
Chinese Minister in this 
country is responsible for 
the drawing of these hiero- 
glyphics, they may be taken 
as accurate, unless, by some 
trick of Chinese subtlety, 
he has marked the coin 
" two dollars," instead of 
one dollar, and has then 
proceeded to order a large 
quantity at the one-dollar 
rate for subsequent sale in 
the East at twice the price. 
Will Chinese scholars 
please check the accuracy 
of these inscriptions ? The 
dies for this British dollar 
have been prepared in the 

Mint — at the joint expense of the Colonies 
principally concerned — but the actual coin- 
ing operations will take place at the Bombay 
Mint. A large circulation is expected, and 
two of the largest Eastern banks have 
guaranteed a minimum coinage of five million 
dollars annually. 

Our own Mint has now enough to do to 
provide us with one year's supply of hard 
cash, and in No. 9 I show 
the nation's hand receiving 
this supply, from the Royal 
Mint. The cube of metal 
which is falling from the 
Mint weighs more than 
300 tons, and is composed 
as follows : — 

Tons. £ 

Bronze Coin 139I Face-Value 58,442 

Silver Coin 
Gold Coin 



No. 9. — The Nation's Hand receiving One 
Year's supply of Hard Cash from the Royal 
Mint — in the form of a Cube, each side of 
which measures only 10ft. 4m. ; but this Cube 
weighs more than 300 tons, and is worth 
£6,869,601 sterling, face-value. [Calculated 
on the average yearly coinage of the ten 
years iSSs~g4, the actual issue for the year 
1894 being £6,634,441.] 

Total... 300^ ,, £6,869,601 

Note. — These weights being, for 
convenience, approximately stated in 
tons, will not, if multiplied by the 
values per ton stated in No. 6, give the 
exact values here mentioned. 

The size of this cube in 
No. 9, representing one 
year's hard cash, is only a 
little more than ioft. 4m., 
but, notwithstanding its 
comparatively small size, its 
weight of 300 tons, plus 
the impetus gained during 
its fall, makes it a suffi- 
ciently heavy mass to be 
caught and sustained even 
by the strong hand which 
waits for it — the hand of 
the nation — and which has 
no difficulty whatever in 
spending this ample supply 
of Hard Cash. 

.Note. — Some of the calculations and illustrations of this paper necessitated a knowledge of the specific gravity of the coinage. 
Mr. F. W. Bayly, Assistant Chemist and Assayer in the Royal Mint, has very kindly made some special experiments with various 
coins, and has communicated the results to me. — J. H. S. 

Gleams from the Dark Continent. 

By Charles J. Mansford. 


p jgTy. 


w s U 



N some respects the sahibs 
would make worthy followers 
of Mahomet," said Hassan, 
our guide, as we sat idly 
smoking under the awning 
of our tent one hot day ; 

"for, since the unworthy latchet of their 

shoes has been the sahibs' servant, he has 

learnt that they appreciate three things which 

every good Moslem does — coffee, a pipe, and 

a story." 

" Is there any other quality you would like 

us to add to the list, Hassan ? " Denviers 

asked the Arab, removing from his mouth 

the amber-tipped and lengthy Egyptian 

chibooque which he had 

been vigorously pulling at ; 

"if there is, you may as 

well mention it." 

"Sahib," Hassan re- 
sponded, gravely," there is 

something better than all 

these — to be of assistance, 

when able, to a diligent 

servant of the Great 

Prophet ! " 

" Well," replied Denviers, 

" you have an ingenious 

way of asking for whatever 

favour you require, Hassan, 

I must admit. However, 

so long as you do not wish 

to start off to Arabia the 

Happy with the pilgrims, 

you are welcome to carry 

out any other plan you may 

have in view." 

" The sahibs' slave seeks 

nothing for himself." Has- 
san remarked, thoughtfully ; 

" yet, to a true believer, 

the pilgrimage to Mecca is 

as a cup of water in the 

desert to the thirsty. If 

the Englishmen will listen, 

what the Arab seeks — it 

strange dervish whom ye saw 

of Erment three days ago." 

they shall hear 
concerns the 
the streets 

" And a fine specimen of humanity he 
was, Hassan," Denviers retorted, with a 
smile. " A cunning glance he gave us 
indeed from beneath the matted hair which 
hung down over his naked shoulders. When 
he clutched at the coins we gave him, I cer- 
tainly thought he looked much less harmless 
than the serpent which he was exhibiting, for 
the latter had a silver ring fastening its mouth 
to prevent it from biting him, as you said, at 
all events." 

" So Hassan has learnt some news concern- 
ing the dervish at last ! " I exclaimed to 
Denviers. "I don't know whether that 
fanatic claims to be descended from Mahomet 
or not, but certainly our best plan will be to 
leave the fellow alone ; he 
deserves no help from us." 
" Wisdom lies in the 
sahib's words," the Arab 
interposed, as he overheard 
my remark, "for, concern- 
ing the dervish, Hassan 
heard this morning by 
chance in one of the 
bazaars of Erment a 
strange story, 
surely. Indeed, 
because of 
what has hap- 
pened, there is 
one coming to 
visit the Eng- 
lishmen who 
desires their 
Badly, indeed, 
has the dervish 
wronged a 
most faithful 
follower and 
descendant of 
the Great 
Prophet — an 
Egyptian who 
has twice performed the holv hajj, or pilgrim- 

" Well, go on, Hassan," Denviers urged, 
" or probably our visitor will arrive before you 




are half-way through your yarn." Thus 
adjured, the Arab stretched himself at our 
feet and began : — 

"Sahibs, of all the dwellers in Erment, 
Sheik Hammad was long considered the 
wealthiest and most fortunate. For him 
caravans travelled far and near, pouring the 
profits of each expedition into his coffers, 
until he became so rich that the eyes of 
envying men were often turned upon him as 
he walked through the winding ways of 
Erment, with his daughter Sapphia by his 
side. For the hand of the latter there were 
many suitors, but the sheik was unwilling for 
her to wed, and dismissed those who sought 
his alliance in this way. As you are aware, 
sahibs, the pretty women of Egypt may only be 
seen closely veiled in the streets, while in the 
harem they are kept to their own apartments. 
Yet for all that, the beauty of Sapphia became 
the topic of conversation in the bazaars, by 
every well-side, and even in the cloisters of 
the mosques ; and, knowing this, Hammad 
smiled — but kept his daughter from those 
who longed to loosen the strings of his purse. 

" One day, as Sheik Hammad lay upon a 
divan in his harem thinking of a new 
caravan which he had raised and recently 
sent to Tripoli, a eunuch announced the visit 
of a holy man, or dervish, to his master. As 
all know, no true Egyptian refuses to give 
such a man audience, and the dervish was 
consequently received by the sheik with that 
respect due to the former's religious calling. 
Hammad rose and then, prostrating himself, 
touched with his lips the holy man's feet " 

" Was the holy man, as you call him, the . 
same dervish that we saw at Erment ? " 
Denviers interposed ; " if so, I am sorry for 
the sheik's act of humility." 

" The sahib shall hear," Hassan responded. 
" The dervish stretched out his hand, and 
touching the sheik, bade him rise and listen 
to the message which he had to deliver. 
Knowing that the holy man was head of a 
band of dervishes, as, indeed, the green 
colour of the scanty garment which he wore 
plainly indicated, Hammad was silent as his 
visitor told of the wondrous visions vouch- 
safed to him at times by the original founder 
of the sect known as the Rifaee. To give a 
portion of his wealth for the support of these 
dervishes Hammad knew he would be asked, 
and, accordingly, the request was acceded to 
with little demur. The dervish explained 
how he had long dwelt within a pyramid, 
once the tomb of a great man of his order ; 
he also declared that it was part of a 
command given to him in a vision to seek 

out Hammad and offer to exchange his posi- 
tion with him for a year. The sheik, however, 
sahibs, feared he would make but a poor 
substitute to be placed at the head of so 
many illustrious dervishes, and humbly de- 
clined the great honour proposed to him. 
At this the dervish was troubled in mind, but 
on Hammad promising a larger sum than at 
first to the members of the strange sect, the 
venerable man departed, saying that he 
would consult the founder of his order when 
another vision was granted to him." 

Denviers smiled at Hassan as he inter- 
posed : — 

" I expect, if Hammad had consented to 
the change of position offered him by the 
dervish, when he was restored at the end of 
the year, probably he would have found his 
coffers emptied altogether. After that, the 
estimable dervish would have had, no doubt, 
a vision concerning some other rich man." 

"The sahib shall hear what happened 
next," Hassan added. " Dervishes are above 
the common cravings for wealth." 

" Evidently they are," said Denviers, " if we 
may judge from the disinterested proceedings 
of this one. However, go on with your yarn, 

" Shortly afterwards the dervish paid a 
second visit to the sheik," the Arab continued, 
"and stated the result of his vision — which 
was fully as surprising as the first one that 
had been granted to him. For a long time 
he spoke to Hammad concerning the import- 
ance and position of chief dervish, while, to 
all his words, the sheik carefully listened, 
expecting to be asked to reconsider his 
former decision. You may easily under- 
stand, then, sahibs, the surprise of Hammad 
when the dervish flung himself at the sheik's 
feet and exclaimed : — 

" ' See ! You, who are but a sheik, have 
it in your power to be raised far above all 
other Egyptians ! ' 

" ' Bend not to me,' answered Hammad ; 
' for,' as you say, I am only a sheik, while you 
are the most famous dervish of all the land 
which the Nile waters.' 

" The dervish rose and glanced curiously 
into Hammad's face : ' Is it wise to refuse 
power ? ' he asked, gravely. 

" ' Not if one seeks it,' the sheik answered, 

" ' Listen to what I would say,' the dervish 
continued: 'wealth and influence can each 
accomplish much ; he who has both is master 
of his fate.'. 

" ' You speak in riddles,' Hammad replied : 
' I wait to learn the meaning of your words.' 



" ' The meaning is clear enough,' the 
dervish replied : ' with you is wealth, with me 
influence. Let us unite our powers.' Still the 
sheik was puzzled. 

" ' How may that be done ? ' he asked, 
little imagining what the reply would be. 

" ' Easily enough,' returned the dervish : 
' your daughter is fair to look upon, give her 
to me in. marriage.' Hammad stared at the 
dervish for a minute without replying, then 
said, with a forced laugh : — 

" ' Surely you jest. Holy men such as you 
never wed ; for Sapphia, my daughter, to 
become your bride would be impossible.' 

" ' The Great Prophet wedded more than 
once,' the dervish retorted: 'am I, his un- 
worthy follower, to imagine that he erred in 
aught he did ? ' 

" ' I know not,' replied Hammad, who at 
last began to see that the dervish intended, 
directly or indirectly, to get some share of 
the sheik's wealth for himself; 'but of this 
you may be assured : the great honour of 
being related to an illustrious dervish such 
as you are would overwhelm me. I cannot 
allow you to extend your 
friendship for me to such a mm 

"'You refuse the alliance?' '. 
the dervish asked. 

" ' That is what my words 
are meant to convey,' replied 
the sheik, with a decided but 
deferential air. His visitor 
moved to where a small 
brazier stood in one part of 
the room, and before the 
sheik could prevent him he im 
thrust something upon the 
live charcoal. 

"'See! ' cried the dervish; 
' you have sealed your own 
fate ! Seed of coriander, 
frankincense, and shreds of 
a written charm give forth 
the smoke and fragrance 
which steal upon your senses. 
Send out caravans, and plan 
to send out others ; give ■ s "^" 
your daughter to a rich 
man as you think to do ; 
but, by the charms which are mine, I say 
all that you venture upon shall fail. Your 
wealth shall be lost and poverty shall come 
upon you, sickness shall seize upon the fair 
Sapphia and you, her sire ; men shall accuse 
you of possessing the evil eye, and women 
shall hide their children's faces lest you look 
upon them to their hurt ! A foolish and a 

mad choice have you made, but now by it 
you must abide ; for not even dust brought 
from the tomb of the Great Prophet will be 
able to cast from you the spell which the 
charm upon the glowing embers casts upon 
you ! In the byways and bazaars of Erment, 
day by day, I will gather the people together 
and declare by the serpent, symbol of the 
Nile, the wrong you have done me ; and what 
is your reward to be, you, who have brought 
the head of the dervishes face to face with 
dishonour ? ' 

" Hammad, sahibs," the Arab went on, as 
we listened to the account of the dervish's 
idle threats, " knew only too well that 
misfortune would come upon him from that 
hour. He stretched out his hands imploringly 
to the holy man and besought him to remove 
the spell — but the dervish was inexorable. 
He turned and left the apartment, his face 
flushed with anger and disappointment, while 
Hammad tried to repeat the first chapter of 
the Koran, which, every true believer knows, 
has much power to protect the one who 
recites it. His senses suddenly were over 


come by the power of the dervish's impreca- 
tion -" 

" Or by the fumes from whatever the 
estimable dervish flung upon the charcoal?" 
Denviers interrupted, as he smiled incre- 

" As I said, sahibs," Hassan went on ; 
" Hammad's senses were affected by the 



imprecation, and, with a cry to Allah and 
Mahomet for help, he fell down in a swoon 
upon the richly-carpeted floor of the apart- 
ment. Hearing the voice of their master, 
two eunuchs ran in to his assistance. They 
raised him, and succeeded in restoring the 
sheik to consciousness, but from that hour 
his health began to fail him. A week later 
Hammad received word that every camel 
belonging to the expedition he had sent to 
Tripoli had died on the way ; his slaves had 
deserted him, fearing to return, since, in the 
midst of their misfortune, down upon them 
swooped a band of Bedouins, who carried 
off all the merchandise with which the camels 
had been loaded. Day after day the sheik 
had to listen to similar accounts of his losses, 
while the dervish explained to those who 
gathered about him in the bazaars how 
Hammad's own evil eye had brought upon 
himself these misfortunes. 

" At last the sheik determined to make a 
pilgrimage to Mecca, accompanied by his 
daughter, for he feared that if he delayed 
much longer, death itself would come upon 
him. With a part of his diminished wealth 
that remained, Hammad purchased a camel, 
and placing his daughter Sapphia upon 
it, the sheik set out with the pilgrims 
bound for the birthplace of the Great 
Prophet. Leading the camel and sup- 
porting himself with a long spear, which 
Hammad knew would probably be wanted 
in their defence from the bands of marauding 
Bedouins, the sheik made the whole of the 
journey to Suez on foot. From Erment, 
where stands the famous temple built at the 
command of the lovely Cleopatra, they 
passed by Thebes with its wondrous ruins, 
where the eyes of Sapphia glanced in awe at 
the two giant statues, whose stern, mysterious 
faces the morning sun gilded, outlining their 
twin shadows, dark and grotesque, upon 
the scorching sand. At Dendarah, too, they 
lingered, and amid its fallen columns 
Hammad spoke to his daughter of the 
wonders of the processions of the priests of 
the goddess Athor when they would sacrifice 
to her because of the year's return. Then 
to Asyut they pressed on, through its emerald 
green pastures, its flowers, and the flocks that 
fed there, on through the valley of the Nile 
till Cairo was reached, the fairest city of all. 
At Suez, when there the pilgrims arrived, 
Hammad found to his dismay that the der- 
vish was one of the great throng bound for 
the Holy City, for, as he passed one of its 
mosques, the holy man emerged from a porch 
and held up a warning hand to the sheik. 

Vol. x.-56 

" ' Your pilgrimage is in vain ! ' the dervish 
cried. ' Whether you would go by land or 
sea, your eyes will never behold the City of 
Mahomet ! ' 

" Before Hammad could reply, the dervish 
disappeared in the surging crowd, and the 
sheik was filled with the belief that his death 
was at hand. Sapphia urged upon her sire 
to take ship to Yambo, the City of the Sea, 
and thence to journey to Mecca. Hammad, 
however, found that the pilgrim ship was 
already overcrowded with passengers ; and at 
last, in his anxiety to reach the Holy City, he 
proceeded by a clumsy craft, the owner of 
which willingly offered to convey the two 
pilgrims to Yambo. Among those who had 
set out from Erment was a young Egyptian 
of good birth, and he had often conversed 
with Hammad on the long march, so that 
when they reached Suez he still wished to 
accompany the sheik even to Mecca, and 
by persuasion prevailed upon the owner of 
the vessel to accept him as a passenger. 
Well, indeed, was it for Sapphia that the 
young Egyptian did so. 

" Leaning over the vessel's side that night, 
watching the play of the waters of the gulf, 
as the waves leapt about the stem of the 
vessel that cleaved its way onward, Hammad 
suddenly heard a cry that came, he knew, 
from Sapphia's lips. Drawing his sword he 
ran in the direction whence the sound came. 
There he saw his daughter struggling to free 
herself from several Arabs, who were trying 
to force her over the side of the vessel oppo- 
site to where the sheik had been idly resting. 
With a cry to Allah for succour, Hammad 
rushed upon the Arabs, only to find himself 
instantly surrounded by them. To his assis- 
tance, however, Khedi, the young Egyptian, 
came ; the owner of the craft and his crew 
keeping discreetly out of the way, or prob- 
ably being in collusion with the Arabs, who 
were doubtless instigated by the dervish to 
carry Sapphia off. Hand to hand they con- 
tended, Hammad and his companion, the 
Egyptian, fighting with a desperate courage 
that awed their assailants. The deck grew 
slippery with the blood of the evil men, and 
at last, in sheer despair, the remainder of 
those who were uninjured flung themselves 
over the vessel's side into the waves, but 
whether they afterwards succeeded in enter- 
ing their boat, sahibs, no one knows, for when 
the owner of the vessel at last approached, he 
found Khedi, the Egyptian, and Sapphia, 
with her veil rent, both supporting Hammad, 
who lay upon the deck. The latter feebly 
drew his daughter's head down, and 



whispered something into her ear, and 
even as she assented to the sheik's 
request, his face grew rigid and they saw 
that the dervish's threats were not idle— 
Hammad was dead ! Landing at Yambo, 
Sapphia made no attempt to continue the 
pilgrimage, and Khedi, the Egyptian, purchas- 
ing for her a camel, as well as one for himself, 
by land they returned without further mishap 
until even Erment was reached from which 
they had set out. There Sapphia remained 
to mourn the death of Hammad, while Khedi 
the Egyptian, who as a boy had once per- 
formed the pilgrimage, went a second time 
when the next year came round to thank 
Allah and Mahomet for his preservation, as 
well as for saving Sapphia from the dervish's 
plot. Now, sahibs, comes the strangest part 
of the story, for he who is coming to seek 
your aid is none other than Khedi, the young 
Egyptian, and ye shall hear why he does so. 

" The only surviving kinsman of Sapphia 
was so much influenced by the account of 
Khedi's bravery, that 
when the young Egypt- 
ian went to him and 
sought her hand he con- 
sented, especially as he 
had heard a rumour 
that the dervish was still 
determined to wed 
Hammad's daughter. 
Accordingly, on the 
afternoon of the second 
day before Khedi 
was to receive his 
bride, the proces- 
sion which then 
takes place set out 
through the streets 
of Erment. Musi- 
cians went before ; 
next, attired in 
garments of white, 
a number of the 
fairest daughters of 
Egypt followed. 
Beneath a canopy 
of rose - coloured 
silk, which four men 
supported, Sapphia 
walked closely 
veiled, her lustrous 

black eyes alone visible as she glanced at 
the gay throng there to do her honour. 
Suddenly, in the midst of those gathered 
there, a horseman urged a richly caparisoned 
steed and, as the crowd reluctantly gave 
way to avoid the horse's hoofs ? each man 

muttered in his neighbour's ear the name 
of the dervish whom all knew so well. 
From the crooked by-ways of the city, from 
beneath the porches of the adjacent mosque, 
from every quarter there came forth the 
dervishes, of whom he who was mounted 
upon the horse was the leader. Round him 
they gathered, dressed as they were in scanty, 
sordid garments, and then broke right through 
the musicians and maidens behind them. 

"'In the name of Allah, I claim my 
bride ! ' the dervish cried ; and before the 
astonished throng could intercept him, he 
snatched up Sapphia and flung her before 
him, then urged his steed quickly forward, 
while his followers ran by his side, thrusting 
back those who sought to break through the 
cordon. So well had the dervish laid his 
plans, sahibs, that Khedi, the young Egyptian, 
to whom the story was quickly told, found 
himself too late to interfere, for Sapphia was 
far beyond his reach, and his enemy had 
worsted him ! From what he heard, the 
dervish carried Sapphia 
off to a certain ruined 
pyramid, which he and 
his followers are said to 
tenant ; but none of his 
own race will assist the 
Egyptian to recover his 
stolen bride. In the 
streets of Erment I met 
him this morning, and 
learning that this 
strange affair took place 
but yesterday, while the 
sahibs were with their 
slave away visiting some 
ruins, I promised to 
endeavour to get 
from you the 
aid he needs." 
"Well, Has- 
san," said Den- 
viers, thought- 
fully, as the 
Arab con- 
cluded his 
strange story, 
"if Khedi, as 
you say this 
Egyptian is 
named, asks us 
to help him we will agree ; but it is evident 
that we shall run into considerable danger 
in doing so." 

" Allah bless the sahibs," Hassan fervently 

returned. " When the Egyptian comes — — " 

" If I am not mistaken, he is already ap- 




proaching our tent," I interrupted, as I saw 
someone crossing the sandy plain which 
stretched before us. 

"The sahib is right," Hassan answered, as 
he rose and prepared to welcome the stranger ; 
" for he who is making for the tent is none 
other than Khedi, the Egyptian ! " 


Following our guide, we advanced to meet 
the one who sought our aid. From the rich- 
ness of the robes which he wore, Khedi was 
evidently a man of high position. As he 
bent deferentially before us I noticed that his 
limbs, although slight, were well-knit, while 
the deep bronze of his oval face, his broad 
forehead, and the grave glance which he turned 
upon us as we neared him, plainly enough 
betokened that he belonged to the race dwell- 
ing beside the Nile. Denviers listened in 
silence to Khedi's remarks ; then, while the 
Egyptian conversed with Hassan, my com- 
panion and I drew apart and discussed the 
man's proposals. 

" One thing is certain," said Denviers, at 
last. " Khedi's plan is useless, for if we went 
with him to the ruined pyramid, of which he 
speaks, and then openly demanded the stolen 
bride from the dervish, we should gain little 
or nothing by it. Besides, I don't like the 
way in which he plays with the handle of the 
sword he carries ; he speaks gravely enough 
at present, but once he gets into the dervish's 
presence his self-control may vanish, and 
probably our liberty with it." 

" After all, it is only by hearsay that we 
understand Sapphia to be the dervish's 
prisoner," I responded. " If we went to- 
gether, we could invent some excuse by 
which to get into that estimable fellow's 
presence, and afterwards we would probably 
be able to hit upon some reasonable plan for 
the woman's rescue." 

"Just so, Harold," Denviers answered; 
" we must have some clear idea of the way 
to the ruined pyramid. We will get that from 
Khedi, and then leave him and Hassan here. 
As we hourly expect Kass to arrive with our 
Wadigo followers, ahead of whom we have 
pushed on, so as to explore some of these 
ruins as we arranged, it is absolutely necessary 
for one of the three of us to await those on 
the march. Hassan would be very useful to 
us, but as it is we must leave him here." 

Without further discussion we joined our 
guide and Khedi. From the latter we 
obtained a clear description of the route to 
the pyramid, and having persuaded him to 
agree to our going without him, we started, 

leaving our rifles in Hassan's charge, so that 
if we entered the dervish's presence he would 
understand our visit as being of a friendly 

For a considerable time we pushed on 
steadily, noting carefully as we went the 
various landmarks which Khedi had 
mentioned. Sometimes these were a few 
overthrown pillars, or an obelisk still standing 
upright, its weather-worn hieroglyphics beyond 
our power to decipher. Once we rested on 
the huge, broken-off paw of some creature 
hewn in stone, the rest of which, for aught 
we knew, was buried far down in the shifting, 
burning sands at our feet. Towards sunset, 
however, we found ourselves entering a great 
cleft in the rocky range barring our way, and 
glancing up at either side as on we went, we 
saw that in many places the stone had been 
hewn into uncouth shapes, among which 
could be observed vast temples in various 
stages of decay, and such as we had not 
previously seen during our travels in Egypt. 
Soft and subdued fell the light from the entry 
and from above the vast fissure upon the 
strange handiwork of man that confronted us 
at every turn of the rocky way. For several 
minutes we passed on in silence between a 
double row of sphinxes, until before us rose a 
wall of granite, which seemed to cut off 
further progress. 

Just as we were discussing the reason why 
the Egyptian had not spoken of the inter- 
vening rock, Denviers caught my arm and 
pointed upward. Glancing there I saw what 
appeared to be a low archway, and, rapidly 
following my companion as he made his way 
up the narrow way which we discerned lead- 
ing to it, we were soon confronted by two 
half-naked dervishes wearing as their sole 
garment a strip of green cloth wound about 
their loins. We recognised immediately their 
similarity to the one we had seen in the 
streets of Erment, and,*accosting the foremost 
of them, Denviers asked, as best he could, for 
an audience with their head or chief. The 
man and his fellow-watcher first profoundly 
bowed, then greeted us with a derisive laugh, 
which caused us for the moment to repent 
that our weapons of defence had been left 
behind. One of the dervishes then hastily 
disappeared into the narrow passage, returning 
quickly with several others, who hustled 
rather than led us down the slanting way. 
At intervals the passage was broken by 
corridors running across it, but our guides, or 
captors as the dervishes seemed to consider 
themselves, hurried us directly on until we 
had advanced considerably more than a 



hundred paces. There, in response to their 
cries, a huge portcullis of stone which ran 
easily in its grooves was raised. No sooner 
had we passed within the grotesquely-carved 
vestibule than this portcullis dropped quickly 
behind us as we went on our way, the shaft 
continuing for some distance and being fre- 
quently intersected. 

■ " We are prisoners, safe enough, Harold," 
muttered Denviers in my ear. " I don't 
think these unwashed dervishes part with 
their guests in a hurry." 

" It looks to me remarkably like " I 

began, then ceased speaking as I glanced in 
surprise at the scene which faced us. We 
had entered what at one time had been 
the interment chamber of the one in honour 
of whom the pyramid had been raised, but 
which, at this time, served 
for a very different purpose. 
Some of the stone blocks had 
been removed from above for 
the admission of light, for 
through countless minute 
pieces of glass 
set in a grace- 
fully carved 
framework the 
rays of the set- 
ting sun entered 
the chief der- 
vish's dwelling. 
Distant as was 
the century in 
which the pyra- 
mid had been 
constructed, the 
slabs of polished 
red gr an ite, 
forming the 
inner sides and 
roof of the apart- 
ment, seemed as 
perfect as though 
recently placed 
there. Set in 
niches that rose 
from the floor to 

high above our heads were placed at intervals 
great images of sacred bulls carved in stone, 
while pillars as white in hue rose upward and 
branched out fan-shaped till they were pressed 
against the partly-gilded roof they supported, 
their outlines marked there with great streaks 
of colour, ochrous and blue. 

Passing on, with curious glances at all 
we saw, we were brought suddenly before the 
one to see whom again we had undertaken 
the adventure. Resting on a raised block of 


stone, approached by three steps, we saw 
the dervish who, in the streets of Erment, 
had clutched our gifts as though in need of 
them. The light from the window high 
above fell upon him as he sat there, his 
sordid attire and neglected hair being 
strangely out of keeping with the splendour 
of the apartment, and still more so with the 
effeminate adornments which he wore. About 
his stained turban was wreathed a curious 
ornament much like the koor which Egyptian 
women of rank wear ; of gold it was, thickly 
inset with gems, the centre one being a 
splendid emerald. About the neck and 
wrists of the dervish were strung heavy beads 
of gold ; among them glittered several 

While we stood uncovered before the 
chief dervish, 
one of his fol- 
lowers sharply 
questioned us as 
to the reason for 
our visit, holding 
upright a green 
banner, which, 
from Hassan, we 
afterwards learnt 
was the distinc- 
tive emblem of 
the great Rifaee 
sect. To a string 
of inquiries put 
to us, Denviers 
gave replies 
which apparently 
satisfied the 
chief dervish, 
and we were even 
hoping to obtain 
the information 
we sought as to 
Sapphia's where- 
abouts, when a 
cry rang through 
the apartment. 
We turned and 
glanced with ill- 
concealed vexation at the cause of it. Push- 
ing his way hurriedly into the chief's presence, 
down flat on his face a dervish flung him- 
self, then rising quickly he delivered a 
message to him. Instantly the chief dervish 
rose and, catching the man by the throat, 
cried : — 

"It is impossible ; say that it is false ! " 
The subject dervish held up his hands 
imploringly, then, finding himself released, 
he gasped out ;—- 



"By Allah and Mahomet, what I have 
said, is said ! False words for the wrong- 
doers are — but thy slave speaks the truth 
alone ! " 

The chief dervish glanced threateningly at 

" Speak ! " he exclaimed. " You declare 
you come here in peace. Why, then, have 
you plotted against me ? " 

We stared at him blankly, not understand- 
ing in the slightest degree the cause of his 

"We have wronged you in no way," 
Denviers answered, quietly. " If you have 
any charge to make against us, let it be said ; 
otherwise we cannot refute it." 

" Tell me," the chief dervish asked, " have 
you heard aught in the bazaars of Erment 
concerning Sapphia, the daughter of one 
Hammad ? " 

Denviers gave a cautious reply, which, how- 
ever, failed to accomplish what he purposed. 

" You acknowledge that you have ! " the 
chief dervish broke in. " Answer, then, where 
is she ? " 

" It is rumoured in Erment that she is an 
inmate of this strange pyramid, or harem as it 
seems to have become," my companion 
answered, with a calmness which he was far 
from feeling, for our position had most un- 
expectedly become serious. 

" Hear me ! " his questioner cried. 
"Yesterday, by the right which I claim as 
head of this most illustrious sect, I claimed 
for my bride one who had been unjustly 
bestowed upon another. She was placed 
under the charge of the women of my 
anderoon, for which purpose one of the 
divisions of the pyramid serves. To me, as 
the greatest Rifaee, visions are granted ; in 
obedience to one of them, Sapphia was 
carried off. Still seeking guidance, I have 
passed the intervening time within the place 
containing the sarcophagus of the founder 
of our order. No word has reached me 
from the women of the anderoon as is 
customary for them to send. Growing 
uneasy, I sent to ask why. The women are 
all bewailing what has happened, and — well, 
ye both know how it came about." 

" I have said we know little about what 
you so obscurely hint at. Certainly, as we 
have not even seen your bride, we are at a 
loss to understand what has occurred." 

" Ye speak falsely, by Allah ! " the dervish 
interrupted. " For since ye entered this 
pyramid an hour ago, Sapphia, my bride, has 
been snatched from me ! " 

" We are astonished ! " cried Denviers, in 

a conciliatory tone. " We saw you once in 
Erment ; afterwards we heard of your great 
fame, and determined to visit you — that is 
all the explanation we can possibly offer you 
for our presence here." 

" A flattering and a false answer," the der- 
vish responded, clenching his fingers with 
wrath ; " but to your words my ears are closed 
even as are the camel's nostrils to the sand- 
storm. If by to-morrow's dawn those whom 
I hear have gone at once in pursuit of Sapphia 
do not overtake her, ye shall both die for 
your share in the deeply-laid scheme by 
which I have been despoiled. Pray Allah 
my bride be brought back, or " the der- 
vish pointed to the string of a bow which one 
of his subjects held, a gesture as significant 
as it was unpleasant. 

At a sign from their chief, the fanatical 
dervishes flung themselves upon us. We 
fought with our hands for freedom, but were 
soon overpowered and forced up the slanting 
passage through which we had come. At the 
intersection of one of its corridors we were 
turned aside until a low stone door was 
reached, which turned with ease as we were 
thrust within a granite-flagged recess, lit only 
by a flickering lamp suspended by a long 
chain from the roof, and there we were left. 

" I fancy our adventures are over at last, 
Frank," I said, gloomily ; " my opinion is 
that Sapphia's escape has been made an 
excuse for seizing us. How are we to know 
but what she is still in some part of the 
pyramid ? This treacherous dervish has 
evidently determined to put an end to our 

"It certainly looks like it," he replied. 
" I thought he was too friendly from the first, 
but still his words had a genuine ring about 
them, which completely threw me off my 
guard. I thought that his cunning expression 
was due to the race he belongs to. If Sapphia 
has really managed to escape, no doubt 
there are some of the dervishes implicated in 
it who will naturally stir up the wrath of their 
chief against us, so as to shift the blame from 
their own shoulders on to ours." 

" There is no way of getting out of this 
place except by the door," I commented, after 
a careful survey; "and that method of egress 
is past our power to use." 

" The worst of the affair is that the woman 
did not need our help, if what the dervish 
declares is true, and, if it is false, then we 
shall be put to death without doing anything 
whatever to save her." 

" In my opinion, this is the worst scrape 
we have ever been in," I added ; "for even 



if we got out of here, which is most un- 
likely to happen, there is that stone portcullis 
cutting off further retreat — to say nothing of 
the dervish's followers who handled us so 
roughly as soon as they got his permis- 

We sank down on the stone floor, but were 
too much disturbed to sleep, although for 
several hours nothing occurred to us. We 
were both convinced of the dervish's desire 
to destroy us, and had given up all hope of 
escape when, glancing at the 
stone door by chance, I saw 
it slowly revolve. 

" Look ! " I whispered into 
Denviers's ear, and a moment 
afterwards we started together 


to our feet, as someone entered and quickly 
thrust-to the door. 

We glanced in strange surprise at the intruder, 
who was an Egyptian woman, and closely 
veiled. Was Sapphia before us? we both 
wondered, as our unexpected visitor advanced 
and stood before us. Her first words, 
however, dispelled the supposition. 

" Sapphia has escaped from the pyramid," 
she said. " You are accused of helping her ; 
but the women of the dervish's harem know 
that is false. Listen ! " she continued — for 
Denviers had attempted to ask a question — 
" there is no time to be lost if you value your 
lives. Hear me, then : Sapphia's sire once 
did a service for mine, since both dwelt in 
Erment. To be the dervish's bride I thought 
an honour ; she considered it otherwise, and 
besought us to help her to escape. Last 
night, when none save the guards of the 
pyramid's entrance were alert, some of the 

women of the harem rose, and helped to free 
Sapphia. We let her down from a window of 

the strange anderoon -" 

"We heard that she escaped soon after 
our arrival to-day," Denviers interposed, 

" So the chief dervish was informed," the 
Egyptian woman answered ; " for at that 
hour her absence from the harem first 
became known. To have told our beloved 
Abbah that he had been despoiled of his 
new-found bride, hours before 
he knew it, would have 
brought the messenger of the 
news one reward — a sack and 
the Nile. Every woman of 
this land loves intrigue ; in 
the escape of Sapphia, Abbah 
will understand the lesson he 
has sometimes forgotten — 
great treasures need great 
safeguards. To what fate are 
you consigned ? " 

" The bowstring," replied 
my companion, at whose 
answer I felt a cold shudder 
run through me : " unless 
you can help us to escape." 
" I ?" the Egyptian woman 
asked. "Would that I could 
free you; as it is, I can only 
give you a little help — the rest 
will depend upon yourselves. 
Although you speak my lan- 
guage well, I see that you 
belong not to this land. Had 
you done so I might have 
influenced the three night-guards to have set 
you free — but you are Franks, if I judge 
rightly. No dervish will help you and, more- 
over, you are unarmed. What I can do I 
will ; if it fail, you can but die, even as 
you are already condemned to do." 

" We will accept the slightest chance of 
escape that offers," I returned, promptly. 
The woman was silent for a few minutes, 
then suddenly moved to the door. She held 
up a warning hand to us, as we began to 
follow her, then disappeared before we could 
clasp the stone edge of the revolving door to 
prevent it from shutting. 

" I thought this Egyptian woman meant to 
help us, Frank," I said to Denviers, as we 
stood by the door, which had securely 
closed upon us. "It looks to me as if 
the dervish has sent her to raise false hopes 
within us." 

" Perhaps her courage suddenly failed," he 
responded; "the Nile is inconveniently near 



for any one of the dervish's household who 
plots against him." 

He had hardly finished his remark when 
the door opened again and, drawing them 
from under her hanging veil, the woman, 
who had returned, pressed in our hands two 
jewelled daggers. 

" They are mine," she whispered. " If you 
are taken with them upon you, my life, no 
less than your own, will be forfeited. Re- 
member this and be resolute. If ever you 
escape, seek out Sapphia and say that I 
helped you, lest the knowledge of your 
deaths might cloud the day when she weds 
Khedi, her lover, of whom you know nothing." 

We did not contradict the woman's last 
remark, but waited impatiently for her to 
unfold whatever plan she had for our escape. 

" From the high window of the women's 
anderoon you might escape, but thither I 
dare not lead you. No ; your way lies be- 
yond the guarded portcullis and the three 
dervishes who keep watch there. Hear, then, 
how the heavy stone framework is moved." 

Denviers shrugged his shoulders. " It 
seems to me that such information is use- 
less," he remarked. " How are we to get 
near enough to it without being discovered ? " 

" Have patience and you shall hear. Heavy 
as is the portcullis, it moves easily enough by 
a touch of the projection, which you will see 
in the second stone block on the right — 
counting from the base. You have seen the 
many corridors which intersect the main 
slanting shaft — one of them opens within 
fifteen feet of where the watching dervishes 
are. Without difficulty you can reach the 
corridor ; once there, lurk in the shadow of 
its entry and wait for what follows. If an 
opportunity occur, dash out and make good 
your escape by raising the portcullis ; if not, 
you can but return here and await the fate 
which presses close upon you both, for it wants 
scarcely an hour to dawn, and then you die. 
No more will I tell you — speak ! are you 
ready to attempt what may bring you safety 
or, at the worst, death a little sooner than 
Abbah has decreed ? " 

"Will your own life be imperilled if we 
escape ? " Denviers asked. 

" Not so, for at times I traverse the cor- 
ridors at night when the chief dervish is 
within the apartment where you saw him. Be- 
sides, my words to the guards will be spoken 
warningly ; neither they nor the chief dervish 
will suspect me, for none know of the service 
rendered to mine, and which to Sapphia I 
would repay." Then lowering her voice, the 
woman told us where the escaped one had 

been urged to conceal herself from those who 
might pursue her. 

" We will make the attempt, then," Denviers 
answered, and a minute after we were 
beyond the stone door. Following the 
Egyptian woman, who acted as our guide, we 
passed further down the corridor than was 
the place of our confinement, until we reached 
another way intersecting at right angles. Up 
the latter we cautiously advanced, then again 
we turned. 

" This last is the corridor of which I 
spoke," our guide whispered : " for your lives, 
make not the slightest sound as you proceed ; 
watch carefully at the end until again I 
appear." Without further delay she left us, 
passing back by the way we came. 

" I wonder how the dervishes are armed ? " 
Denviers muttered to me. " These weapons 
of ours will be poor things with which to ward 
off a sword-stroke." 

" We must take our chance," I whispered 
in reply, feeling convinced that his words 
were only too true. Slowly and carefully we 
passed down the corridor, moving close to 
the stone wall in the shadow which fell upon 
one side of the passage. Nearer and nearer 
we got to the entrance, until at last we 
crouched together where we could see the 
three dervishes of whom the Egyptian 
woman had spoken. We noticed that they 
were close to the portcullis ; one of them, 
indeed, was idly leaning his back against it, 
standing in such a position that he could see 
clearly anything that appeared in the part of 
the shaft he faced. 

Three fierce-looking fellows the dervishes 
were, each armed with a heavy-handled 
dagger, the blade of which was very wide 
near the haft, but narrowed to a long, keen 
end, the weapons being considerably larger 
than those the woman had given us. It was 
evident that we could only act on the 
defensive, for, as the dervishes stood there, 
we knew it would be quite useless to make 
an attempt to escape. As we watched them 
and caught part of their conversation, which 
was carried on in Arabic, the one who leant 
against the portcullis suddenly stood upright 
and pointed down the passage. Instantly 
the others turned about, and one of them 
exclaimed : — 

" See ! The queen of Abbah's harem 
approaches ! " 

" A strange hour for her to wander here," 
replied the one who stood to his right. 

" She has too much freedom," retorted he 
who had first seen her, as we heard footsteps 
slowly drawing near ; "she was Abbah's first 



bride, or — — ." The rest of the remark did 
not reach us, for when the woman approached 
the three dervishes promptly salaamed. 
From the slit in her veil the Egyptian glanced 
at them in apparent anger. 

" Fools ! " she cried ; " to think that Abbah, 
my lord and yours, 
should trust aught to 
your keeping ! " The 


dervishes were considerably astonished, 
wondering what was laid to their charge. 
" But a few hours ago Abbah's latest bride 
escaped, and none of you know how that came 
about; now, alas! worse has happened " 

"Worse?" interrogated one of the der- 
vishes. "What can be even as unfortunate?" 

"Aye, worse," the Egyptian woman went 
on. " Disturbed by the events of the day, I 
could not rest, and so entered the chief 
apartment where Abbah keeps vigil. He lay 
still upon the marble at the base of one of 
the great images. Thinking that he slept, I 
passed away. A strange fancy came upon me 
to visit the place into which the prisoners 
had been thrust, they whom ye say planned 
and carried out Sapphia's escape. The door 
stood open — the prisoners were gone ! " 

" Escaped ?" the dervishes cried together, as 
they snatched their weapons from their sides. 

" Escaped even while you three have pre- 
tended to keep watch. Does Abbah sleep, 
think you, or have the Franks slain him, and 
are they still hiding there after what they 
have done ? Go, find and slay them ! " 

" They cannot have left the pyramid, for 
the portcullis has never been raised since 
they entered here," replied the dervish who 
leant against it. " If Abbah live, as I pray 
Allah and the Prophet he may, he shall find 
one who has kept his post." 

" The great dervish, Abbah, our lord, is at 
the mercy of these false Franks ! " 
cried one of the others ; " while 
you keep guard we will follow 
the queen of the harem and 
search for them." 

" I dare not witness the slaying 
of men," the woman answered. 
" Go, seek them out, and give 
no alarm until you have them 
in your power ; I will await here 
your return." 

Down the gloomy passage the 
two dervishes disappeared. When 
the sound of their footsteps had 
died away, Denviers caught my 
arm and whispered : — 

" Come on, I will keep the 
dervish at bay while you find the 
spring of the portcullis." 

We ran out from our place of 
concealment upon the dervish, 
who was conversing with the 
Egyptian woman, whose scheme 
we then easily understood. In a 
moment the man thrust her aside 
and confronted us boldly, while 
the woman covered her eyes with 
the end of her veil as if in great terror at 
our unexpected appearance. 

Denviers aimed a blow at the dervish with 
his dagger, but catching it on his own weapon 
the man made a return lunge, which my 
companion warded off with considerable 
difficulty. Quickly I caught sight of the 
projection, and, pressing upon it, caused the 
heavy portcullis to be slowly raised. Just as 
I did so, a cry from Denviers's lips struck 
upon my ears, but before I could take warn- 
ing from it, I was seized from behind and 
flung upon the paved floor. Looking up, I 
saw who my assailant was — the chief dervish 
himself ! For a minute I was completely 
startled, then seizing the weapon in my belt 
I snatched it out and aimed an upward blow 
at my unexpected assailant. He caught my 
wrist and endeavoured to wrench away the 
weapon, raising loud cries for assistance. 
Close over me he bent ; I flung my dis- 
engaged arm about him and tried to drag 
him down, convinced that a few seconds 
would decide my fate — for I heard the der- 
vishes returning at their chief's cry for 



succour. I got him 
beneath me, when 
suddenly I was pulled 
away. Denviers having 
separated us ; for his 
own enemy lay prone 
almost at my feet. 

" Look ! Run ! Run 
for your life ! " he 
cried, as the dervishes 
were closing upon 
us, and one of 
them pressed the 
projection of the 
portcullis. We 
shook ourselves 
free from them, 
and with a dash 
got beyond the 
heavy bars of 
stone, which 
even grazed 
head as both 
passed safely 
beneath it. 
Down fell the 

portcullis as we ran headlong, making for the 
entry, urged on by the fanatical cries of the 
dervishes, who quickly raised the obstruction 
and pursued us. We passed down the narrow 
path and ran on in the gloom until we reached 
the avenue of sphinxes. In the hollow formed 
by two huge extended paws we crouched, 
while our pursuers still ran on — to fail in their 
search and to return disappointed. As soon 
as we dared, we set out to where our tent was 
pitched, and arrived there, contrary to our 
expectation, without being pursued again, and 
having with us Sapphia, whom we accidentally 
discovered in a retreat in which the queen of 
the harem had advised her to hide. 

Hassan and Khedi came across the sandy 


waste to meet us. We 
explained what had 
happened, whereupon 
the Egyptian, with 
many protestations of 
gratitude, bore off his 
bride to Erment. 

"Well, Hassan," said 
Denviers to our Arab 
guide, as we threw our- 
selves down to rest 
in the tent, " you 
do not seem much 
disturbed at the fact 
that you had no 
part in our adven- 
ture, although 
usually you express 
great disappoint- 

"T-he sahib's 
slave has no cause 
for regret," Hassan 
answered. "The 
Englishmen have 
escaped with their 
lives, while the 
Great Prophet has 
chosen to reward also the dust of their 
august feet, so that all is well." As he 
spoke the Arab drew from his sash a 
curiously-worked Egyptian purse apparently 
well filled. Our grave guide had used the 
opportunity of our absence to extract for his 
own personal benefit a liberal backsheesh 
from the Egyptian. "Khedi deserved to 
have his bride restored, sahibs," he added, 
" and their slave has enough gold to buy 
himself a camel with ! " 

Without waiting for our views on the 
subject, Hassan found it convenient to have 
some business with Kass, our chief Wadigo 
follower, who had then arrived, and hurried 
away accordingly. 

Vol. x.— 57. 

By Miss 


ELL, them's fools as does 
it, that's all I can say," 
and Beery Bill, a hawker up 
Houndsditch way, tugged his 
cart through the doorway by 
tilting it so savagely that the 
unsold vegetables rolled about the floor. 

His partner, meek and jaded-looking, did 
not rise from the wooden box on which she 
was sitting, with a puny child on her lap, 
while two even punier pounced upon some 
unsavoury carrots and began munching them 
with gusto. 

" It's for the sake o' the childer," she said, 
feebly, with that weary reiteration in her tone 
which takes the place of reasoning in the 
minds of the ignorant; "that's every blessed 
bit o' food they've 'ad to-day." 

Beery Bill did not answer at once ; he un- 
earthed a canvas sack from underneath a 
heap of garden produce which that morning 
had been voted too stale for selling purposes, 
and was left to further rot in a corner, and 
having disposed of this round the netherpart 
of his person, he squatted on the ground 
opposite his partner and thoughtfully lighted 
his pipe. 

" It's for the sake o' the childer I say no," 
he began, when the first puffs had proved 
satisfactory ; " 'op-picking is all very well in 
its way, but the company is mixed, very 
mixed. The young varmints er bad enuf 
'ere in the town ; they ud be ten times wuss 
running wild in the country." 

" I enjoyed 'op-picking myself many a 
time," said the faded woman, with a little 
sigh for the green fields and the balmy air, 

and the babbling brook and the dappled 
sunsets that were but a memory for twenty- 
five grimy, squalid years. 

"So did I," he replied, condescendingly; 
" but it's gone down in style since then. 
Farmers used to know their 'ands, and take 
them reg'lar year by year. Now anybody 
goes — even toffs ! " The scorn in the last 
word was indescribable, and he shook the 
ashes from his pipe with the air of one who 
had clinched the subject altogether. 

Then the meek one tried another tack. 

" Wegetables is not profitable this season," 
she began, cautiously. 
' " That's so," he replied. 

" It's so 'ot — they're too plentiful." 

" And stink afore you get to the best 
streets, no need to tell me that," he remarked, 

" The 'ops, as they do say," she went on, 
playing her last card tentatively, " 'ave never 
been so fine, and the farmers are payin' !ands 
what they like to ask." 

His dirt-stained hand tugged at his grizzled 
beard ; perhaps visions of a froth-filled pewter 
in a cleanly village "pub" floated before 
his bleared eyes. Anyway, his voice was less 
dogmatic when he spoke again. 

" Folks talk a pack o' lies, Melier, and I 
shouldn't hearken to such. Not that I want 
to be unreasonable to you, and if you 'ave 
taken a fancy to go 'op-pickin', a 'op-pickin' 
we will go. It's the journey down's the 
hobstacle ; the people 'er that rough, it's not 
fit for you and the kids. If we could track 
it, now." 

" What's that ? " I inquired, speaking for 



the first time from the one chair this interest- 
ing family owned. 

■ (Perhaps here is the place to introduce 
myself, as an individual in quest of personal 
experience, and able to vouch for the truth of 
what follows.) 

" It's goin' by road," Bill explained ; "in a 
waggon, with friends, and takin' your furniture 

" I thought that never was done now," I 

" Plenty do it every year," answered Bill, 
in high good humour that he was able to 
teach someone; " it comes cheaper in the end. 
You see, now the farmers 'ave to find us 
something better than barns, and they run up 
'ouses with stone or brick floors and throw 
in some straw as if we were beasts. We are 
not accustomed to luxuries, as perhaps you 
see," waving his pipe round the tableless, 
curtainless, carpetless, chestless apartment, 
some eight feet square ; " but we like our 
'ome comforts, and must either buy 'em there 
or take 'em with us. It's borrowin' the 'osses 
is what beats me." 

" You should try to join some other family," 
I suggested ; " if you can make up a party, I 
will come too." 

" It's the joinin' that's so 'ard," replied 
Bill, rising and divesting himself of his canvas 
wrap. " I 'ear Furniss, two doors lower, 
is goin' that way : 'e's a low sort o' fellow, a 
chimney-sweep. Then Mrs. Sam will be 
bound to go with 'er eight childer ; but if I 

ketch my wife speakin' to 'er " (and the 

threat was lost in 
his throat) "I'll go 
to the ' Four Stars ' 
and cogitate there. 
We aint haristocrats, 
miss, but we 'ev our 
little feelin's." 

A few days later 
and the " tracking " 
was begun. I must 
own that in fancy it 
had taken the shape 
of a nineteenth cen- 
tury gipsy party, and 
I had imagined the 
stalwart Bohemian 
van, the picturesque 
and neat gipsies, 
the cheerful horses, 
the light - hearted, 
barefooted children. 

My dismay at the 
reality could hardly 

be concealed, when I joined them some five 
miles from St. Paul's. Two or three open, ram- 
shackle carts, drawn by the most sorry beasts 
I ever came across, contained bundles, babies, 
parcels, and fire-irons, shied in promiscuously, 
allowed to remain where they fell. Dirty 
mattresses bulged out from dirty blankets ; 
a child's scarlet frock, which had evidently 
been forgotten, was tied to the handle of a 
frying-pan, and waved attractively in the 
wind. Treacle oozed out of a hamper, whilst 
babies and bluebottles had a race as to who 
could first have their fill ; kettles were stuffed 
with family linen (which same is a figure of 
speech), a variety of headgear, apparently 
for Sunday's donning, adorned basket-handles, 
sticks, and even cotton Sairey Gamps ; whilst 
tin slop-pails. made an elegant receptacle for 
sundry boots, pots of lard, penny combs, 
and half-loaves of bread. Added to this, 
every male as he trudged along had a big 
bundle slung over his shoulder, whilst every 
female had the same or a baby. Three 
boys and three girls composed the juniors 
of the party ; which besides was formed of 
eight men, five wives, and two flashy damsels 
who were flower-girls in town. 

" Have we to walk all the way ? " I inquired, 
ruefully, of one of the latter. 

" Did you 'spect a carriage and pair ? " she 
said, tossing back her auburn mop of a 
fringe, " or perhaps you wanted one of the 
gen'lemen to give you a lift." 

" We take it in turns to ride in the carts," re- 
marked Mrs. Bill, timidly. "You go first, miss." 




I looked at the jolting, jumbling vehicles, 
at the raw-boned, spavined steeds, and heroi- 
cally declined. 

" How do you manage about sleeping ? " I 
ventured to ask next. 

" We pull up under a hedge, and shift the 
best we can," was the answer. 

From that moment I genuinely agreed 
with Beery Bill that the journey down was a 
" hobstacle." 

We made many a halt, always in the 
vicinity of a public-house. The poor man 
has generally coppers for a drink, and the 
cup went round, each one being pressed just 
to have a snack ! Some bottles were filled 
with cold tea, and at one place the landlady 
gave the children some currant-cake. 

Slowly we trundled along the 
road ; houses got fewer and fewer ; 
the trees became thicker and more 
plentiful ; gardens, fragrant with 

towel. And we women sat and talked, as 
women sit and talk all the world through, the 
mothers of their children, the girls of their ad- 
mirers, and the old crone, who was deaf and 
bent double, of the wonderful, brilliant "past." 
Meanwhile, the birds sang in the bushes, 
the cocks crowed in the adjacent farms, and 
the air was heavy with the luscious sultry 
sweetness of the last days of a hot and fading 
summer. The very leaves seemed perspiring, 
as they drooped or turned over with the 
sickly heat, and it was somewhat languidly 
we recommenced our tramp. The dust lay 
thick upon the road, and already some of 
our party were blistered and footsore. The 
children suffered most ; they cried, and when 


late roses, wall-flowers, and southern-wood, 
tempted the juveniles to loiter longingly at 
the gates ; and the ripening corn greeted our 
gladsome gaze on every side. Our travellers 
had started at 4 a.m., and before noon began 
to lag. So none were sorry when Beery Bill 
proposed we should turn into a hollow we 
came to and make ourselves " quite at 

The horses were set free, some of the men 
smoked, some stretched themselves out on 
the long green grass and fell fast asleep. Bits 
of bread were doled out to the youngsters, 
smeared with treacle or lard, as taste inclined, 
and Beery Bill, who was reckoned a character, 
took it into his head to have a wash there 
and then ; so, unlatching a gate, he retired to 
a very weedy duck pond, his wife standing 
by with a bit of a rag, which did duty for a 

scolded, whimpered pitifully below their 
breath. The parents carried those they 
could, but were hardly able to drag them- 
selves along. 

Stiller and stiller became the air, till one 
almost heard the blades of grass pant for 
breath. The dust we swallowed stuck in our 
throats and lay in great lumps there. The 
sky darkened ; the earth seemed to throb 
beneath our cracked and swollen feet. Then 
came a vivid, blinding flash, and the heavy 
roll of thunder. We all stood still ; the little 
ones clung, trembling, to their mothers' 
breasts ; the horses quivered and hung their 
heads ; the women, half-blinded and scared, 
hushed their frightened babes, or rubbed 
their dazed eyes : and the men — they re- 
mained stock still, staring at one another in 
a bewildered sort of way. 



It came so suddenly, flash after flash, roar 
after roar ; a blue darkness enveloped us, and 
then yellow flame shot out from the sky, and 
like jewelled daggers shone hither, thither, 
pierced here, there, till our very brains 
caught fire, and it was an effort not to scream 
aloud with the dazzling, brilliant beauty of it. 
The peals of thunder roared just above our 
heads ; the ground shook just beneath our 
feet ; we could go nowhere ; we could do 
nothing — just stand to see what followed. 
And then down came the blessed rain, a 
splashing, lilting downpour that drenched us 
to the skin in five minutes, but relieved the 
painful tension of our nerves, and made us 
feel like human beings once again. It welled 
down from the heavens in ponderous sheets ;. 
it splashed up from the ground in merry 
hisses ; our strained, dry flesh sucked it in 
thirstily at every pore ; like drunkards return- 
ing to their cups after a period of forced 
abstention, we revelled in the liquid, and 
cared little for what followed the excess. 

For all too soon the reaction came : the 
refreshing coolness became chilliness, the 
chilliness gave way to cold. Our soaked rags 
saturated into our shivering frames, and our 
limbs grew stiff, with ominous pains in the 
joints. The contents of the carts had turned 
into a squashy pulp, and the girls cried as 
they saw the emaciated condition of their 
flimsy finery. We staggered 'on, till an early 
dusk, thickened by an intermittent drizzle, 
momentarily increased our discomfort. 

We were in a winding lane, and had just 
passed through a straggling village, where we 
had begged separately and in couples for 
food and shelter in vain. Our appearance 
was against us. For the sake of the wailing 
babes one other attempt was made. Beery 
Bill so far demeaned himself as to go to a 
farm with me and offer to pay a trifle for the 
accommodation of the whole party in a barn. 
We were curtly refused. Then Beery Bill 
took action. 

" If they won't give us leave, we must take 
it," he said, gruffly, and when dark had 
descended (or the dim night pall which takes 
the place of dark on an August night) we 
drew up in a ditch and, tethering the horses, 
crept silently and fearsomely one by one 
across two fields to a disused barn. The 
bottom door 'was locked, but the men 
climbed and hoisted us up through the 
window, and we cowered down upon the hay 
thankful for such a shelter. 

Shall I ever forget that night ? The steamy 
noisomeness that exuded from our garments 
made breathing a pain, not a pleasure ; we 

had no light but the sparks from the men's 
pipes and the grey shadow that came from 
the moon behind the clouds. I felt, rather 
than saw, the people grope about, winding 
hay round their feet to dry them, wringing 
the wet from their long, lank hair, and 
rubbing the back of the old woman, who was 
bad with rheumatics. Soon, too soon, I fell 
asleep, and fast asleep, unwitting that death 
had found us out in that deserted barn in 
that deserted field, and was stealing one 
away, whose tiny life ebbed fast within an 
arm's length of me. 

At 2 a.m. they woke me. 

" We must be on the tramp again," was 
whispered. " Norah's child is dead." 

I looked across to where Norah lay. She 
had been comely once, but want, and what it 
drives to, had sadly scarred her face. The 
dead body of the six-year-old girl was by her 
side. No one showed signs of grief, but 
unusual quietness prevailed. All were pre- 
occupied with the awkwardness of the 

" Shall we take it with us ? " I asked one 
of the flower-girls, who was twisting her 
fringe with a hair-pin. 

" Not likely," was the reply ; " we must 
leave it here and chance it." 

Stealthily we crawled from our strange bed- 
chamber, leaving two men behind. Beery 
Bill was one of them. 

When we were well under way in the 
sunless dawn he joined us again. 

" That's an orkard piece of business," he 
said to me, jerking his thumb to where the 
dead child lay, shroudless and uncoffined. 
" I must ask you to cut with me and do the 
rest o' the journey by train. If they track us, 
it will save the others not to be found among 

So I changed attire with his wife ; he 
shaved, or scraped off rather, his grisly beard, 
and thus disguised we trudged in an opposite 
direction to our travelling caravan. As we 
mounted a hill I looked back. Where the 
barn had stood was steeped in smoke. 

" You fired it ! " I exclaimed, pointing to 
the curling circles as they rose above the 

" Them as knows least fares best," he 
replied, oracularly, and I took the hint. 

Perhaps it was as well that I never read a 
paper for three weeks, nor did I meet any of 
our party again. 

At a roadside station we caught a . hop- 
pickers' train, and became merged in the 
great floating riff-raff that belches out of 
London yearly at this time. Weighted with 



his secret, Bill's pride was not so keen, and 
sighting a pal in the hawker line, he accosted 
him cordially, and agreed to throw in his luck 
with him. Fortunately for us, this " pal " had 
lost sight of the two re- 
lations who had booked 
with him a berth at Jop 
Hill Farm, so with the 


I £m*? />■ 


happy honesty of East-end folk, we slipped 
into their places, which they did not come to 
claim, having, no doubt, in the meantime, 
got a job more worth having. Our employer 
was of the crusty sort, though one of the 
largest landowners in the neighbourhood. 
He hated us as the spawn of humanity, and 
openly favoured the "home-dwellers" on 
every possible occasion. They took their cue 
from him, and flaunted us and flouted us 
(particularly the women) as the very dregs of 

Such a feeling was bound to come to a 
head ; it did very soon. 

All south country people know that the 
hops are first gathered into bins or canvas 
bags slung on a pole. A party work at a bin 
and are paid according to measure. Enough 
are gathered each day to fill the furnaces and 
enough only ; more than enough would rot. 
So if the workers begin early and work hard, 
the bell may ring as soon as 4 p.m. ; the 
carts go round and collect the hops, and not 
a stroke more may be done. 

The hop-pickers are reduced to their homes 
or the " pub." The " homes " are buildings 
erected specially for them, in a field by a 

brook as far removed from the village as 
possible. They consist of a room with a 
partition of wood ; the light comes from a 
sloping pane in the roof. Some straw is 
thrown on the stone 
^ % floor, and a hook in 

the wall for a lamp 
constitutes fixtures. 
No fire is allowed, 
smoking is forbidden, 
even the lamp must 
be out at 9 p.m. 
Breaking the 
rules means for- 
feiture of wages. 
At the end of 
each row is a 
cook-house with 
range and sink, 
the women take 
turns to cook 
for the whole party, 
and rations are served 
in common. Milk and 
other necessaries have 
sometimes to be 
brought from the 
village, a two miles' 
trudge. No inhabitant 
will serve them if 
they can avoid it ; 
and hop-pickers would 
tare badly indeed if it were not for stray 
pedlars (who make a mint of money at such 
times) selling cheap and nasty wares, but at 
least bringing everything to hand. This 
suits the women, and the men have the 
village ale-house. They cannot be expected 
to sit in darkness minus their pipe, so to the 
ale-house they go, where the kind publican 
lets them run into debt, knowing to a T 
what they get from the hops. 

It is at the ale-house discontent is brewed. 
At least so it was with us. One day it rained, 
and as damp hops are useless, work was 
stopped, and we were told our services would 
not be wanted that day. In the afternoon it 
cleared up ; the home-dwellers were called to 
work, but the bell was never sounded for us. 
The whole of a weary six hours we fretted 
and fumed, and at night, when the men met 
at "The Dun Cow," their wrath culminated. 
They determined on a strike. 

I had accompanied Beery Bill that evening 
and heard the details of the plot. 

We were to refuse to work the next day 
till they had promised to pay us the half- 
day's work we had lost through Farmer 's 

partiality, and there was to be a distinct 



understanding that we were not to be shelved 
in that way again. As Beery Bill expressed it : 
" Leddies and gen'lemen don't come down 
from Lonnen to oblige you by working in 
your fields, and then stand by and see other 
folk do it." 

We were very brave that night, but courage 
oozed off in the morning. Seven a.m. is a 
chilly time to deliberately turn your back on 
breakfast, dinner, and tea. Many of the 
men had had a bad night with their wives, 
who wept and wailed at their resolve, which 
meant want for themselves and the "kids." 
But their advice was never asked ; they were 
told to strike, and they had to. 

Still, the women's moaning had this effect : 
the men were open to compromise, and a 
civil word would have soothed all. But it 
was not forthcoming. The deputation said 
their say to the foreman, who told them 
plainly to go to the deuce, that they bred 
disease and dissension wherever they went, 
and that to his mind they were a parcel of 
rogues, nothing more. 

They retired, cursing low and deep. Not a 
soul of us left the " houses " or their environs 
for four entire days. The sun blazed its 
fiercest, burning up the hops ere they could 
be gathered from the poles. We saw and 
rejoiced. We lazed and lounged the livelong 
day, sick with the heat, faint with hunger ; 
we tossed in those dark holes the livelong 
night, craving for a bite, a taste, a morsel of 
solid food. The men had forestalled their 
wages a week before, and but for the extra 
thrifty we should not even have had the milk 
and oatmeal flour, which was our chief sus- 
tenance. The children were sent out to 
gather fruit, and the women begged. Some 
of the men prowled about at night, and what 
they brought home we thankfully ate without 
asking questions. 

Then the weather changed, and it rained 
continually ; our houses were not weather 
proof, and the absence of fires chilled. 
Sodden and desperate, the men with matted 
hair and hollow eyes huddled together in 
corners, pretending to chuckle at the ruin the 
rain made in the hops, but in reality itching 
to finger them and devastate the gardens 
while still in their glory. But not a thought 
of yielding ever entered our heads. There is 
nothing like the British working-man for 
doggedness of resistance. 

Illness came to increase our troubles. We 
had among our crew a pretty, quiet girl 
named Mary Rutherford ; she was a shirt- 
maker by trade, and far gone in consumption ; 
the doctor had ordered her country air, and 

she took this means of procuring it. She 
came down with a motherly old soul, who 
had six olive branches of her own. Mary 
had been down the year before, and formed 
an attachment to a farm servant called Larry. 
His simple devotion to her recalled the days 
of knight errantry. He wore a bit of her 
hat-ribbon in his button-hole ; he brought 
her milk, warm from the cow, in a can 
hidden under his coat ; he scrawled verses 
to her every day on dirty bits of paper, and 
he notched their combined initials on every 
gate-post and tree he could. They mooned 
about the fields at twilight, they loitered 
beneath the sycamores under the stars, and 
when the strike began he boldly visited our 
habitations, bringing her money and food. 

AVhether the midnight meanderings had 
something to do with it, or the damp situa- 
tion of our tenements accelerated the disease, 
I cannot say ; but Mary presently developed 
a hacking cough and blood-spitting. Her 
strength went at a stroke, and before anyone 
realized she was really ill, she was dead. No 
doctor had been called, no clergyman had 
been sent for ; she ■ slipped away from our 
midst as she had lived, with no fuss and not 
a word of complaint. She had suffered, and 
suffered in silence, and as she lay so meekly 
there, with the thin hands folded and the 
long lashes resting on the white, waxen cheeks, 
there was a choke in each man's throat ; for 
they felt, had they but known, they would 
have given up both pipe and beer for the 
mild grey eyes once more to smile on them 
and the gentle voice once more to greet them 
shyly but with kindness. Larry was inconsol- 
able, and sobbed like a very child. 

She was starved through the strike, he 
declared, and he would work no longer with 
those who had hunted her to death, but 
would come to London and bury his grief 

Perhaps his sorrow, so outspoken and de- 
monstrative, compared with that generally 
shown by the coster class, inspired Beery 
Bill with an idea. 

He had been pondering for some time, 
with his big head in his big hands, when he 
suddenly announced it was only right to try 
and bring our employer to grasp " the 
responsibilities of his position." 

" And this is 'ow we'll do it, mates," con- 
tinued Bill. "We'll carry Mary theer and 
we will lay 'er as she is on 'is doorstep, so 
when 'e rises with the lark 'e can see 'ow 
starvin' looks like ; mebbe it will give 'im an 
appetite for breakfast." 

We were all too low to resist this gruesome 




plan, and Bill plainly delighted in a situation. 
So, while a harvest moon bathed the peaceful, 
sylvan landscape in her cold, yellow light, and 
the summer breeze waved through the uncut 
corn and rustled in the boughs of the dark, 
spreading trees, three gaunt and haggard men 
carried, on a stretcher, the frail corpse, un- 
covered, for we had neither sheet nor towel 
to lend her. 

Stepping lightly through the grounds, un- 
watched by dogs, they laid her in front of 
the windows in a bed of sweet peas and 
mignonette, her black hair framing her white 
face, which looked so sharply chiselled in the 
still, clear moonlight. Then they hied back 
to us to bide their time. On a sheet torn 
out of a copy-book, and pinned to her breast, 
was the following : — 

Mary Rutherford dead 
For want of bread. 

This was Larry's contribution to the 
ghastly transaction, and probably was the 
nail that went straight home. 

I heard later that Farmer sent at 

once for the doctor to remove the corpse for 
fear of infection, and when the medical 

examination resulted in the verdict that the 
inscription was about true, he sent for the fore- 
man and was shut up with him a long time. 

The result was that, at noon, Farmer — 

visited our dwellings in company with the 
foreman. The men were all called out on 

the grass, and Farmer , a hale and hearty 

man, boasting eighty summers, with a blue 
eye as bright as any schoolboy's, his ruddy 
face surmounted by snow - white locks, 
addressed them, leaning on an oaken stick. 

The upshot of his speech was that, though 
he refused to allow us to dictate to him as to 
the terms he made with the home-dwellers, 
if we chose to go in then and there to work, 
he would pay us iod. a bushel instead of 9d. 
as heretofore, for the remainder of our stay. 
The foreman had also orders to pay a day in 
advance to those who had got into arrears. 

We accepted the terms and turned in. 
The lesson had done good on both sides. 

Many weeks after, when back in London, 
Beery Bill confessed to me and his wife that 
he had got the "corpse idea" from — The 

Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives. 

From a] 





LL.D., D.C.L., was 
born at Dundee. He 
graduated as senior classic at 
Cambridge, in 1862, and was soon 
afterwards elected a Fellow. In i< 
nominated by the University as a Governor 
of Charterhouse School, and in 1872 was 

From a Photo. by~\ 

71 he was 

Greek in the Univer- 
sity of Glasgow. In 
1879 the University of 
Edinburgh conferred 
upon him the honorary 
degree of Doctor of 
Laws. In 1891, on 
the death of the Hon. 
H. C. Raikes, he was 
elected M.P. for the 
University of Cambridge, and was re-elected 
at the General Election in 1892, and again in 
1895. He is the author of many standard 
works, which, unfortunately, we have not 
sufficient space to allude to here. 

age 45. [Lafayette, Dublin. 

From a Photo, by] 

[Maull & Go. 

elected Classical Examiner in the University 
of London ; and was also appointed Tutor 
of Trinity College ; but resigned these posts 
on being called, in 1875, to ^ tne Chair of 

Vol. x.^-58. 

From a Photo, by] 

present day. [R. B. Lord, Cambridge. 



amount of amateur performances. In 
1889 he made his first appearance as a 
professional actor on tour with Mrs. 
Langtry. He came to London with 
her for a season at the St. James's 
Theatre in 1890, and for a time managed 
the theatre himself. In the autumn of the 

From a Photo, by] 

AGE 10 months. [E. T. Brooks, Newbury. 

Born 1864. 

now popular lessee and manager 
of the Royalty Theatre, Soho, 
inaugurated his management a 
month ago by his successful pro- 
duction of "The Chili Widow," being 
strongly supported by his clever partner in 

From a Photo, by] 

AGE 8. [J5. T. Brooks, Newbury. 

life, Miss Violet Vanbrugh, and a strong 
cast. Mr. Bourchier received a thorough 
education at Eton and Christ Church, 
Oxford, where he took active part in any 

From a Photo, by] 

age 18. 'C. Hawker, Newbury. 

same year he joined the Crite.ion company to 
play Charles Courtly in " London Assur- 
ance," and Joseph Surface in " The School 
for Scandal." As the hero of " The Derby 
Winner " he has been eminently successful, 
and as to his present work, no better can be 
said than recommend the reader to see for 
himself. He will not be disappointed. 

From a Photo, by] 

present DAY. [ Walery, Regent Street. 




RS. BOURCHIER, known to every 
playgoer as charming Violet Van- 
brugh (a favourite godchild of the 
Baroness Burdett-Coutts), is the 
daughter of the late Rev. Reginald 
Barnes, a Prebendary of Exeter Cathedral, 
and a personal friend of the late General 
Gordon. In fact, it was at Mr. Barnes's 
house that the gallant hero spent his last 

under Mr. Kendal's tuition were, Miss 
Vanbrugh thinks, the most valuable in her 
professional life. Back in London, she 
joined Sir Henry Irving's company, and 

few days in Eng- 
land previous to 
starting on his 
fatal expedition to 
pacify the Soudan. 
In March, 1888, 
Miss Vanbrugh 
made an excellent 
Kit ty Ma it la n d 
in "The Don," at 
Toole's Theatre, 
and in the autumn 
essayed a higher 
flight by appearing 
as Ophelia at Mar- 
gate. The next year 
she had a good 

opportunity for the display of her high spirits, in a 
matinee of " The Begum's Diamonds," and made a 
dashing grande dame as Lady Gillingham in "The 
Weaker Sex." She then accompanied Mr. and Mrs. 
Kendal in their trip to America. These two years 


From a Photo, by H. S. Mendelssohn. 



Born 1844. 


the most distinguished war corre- 
spondents of our time, is the son 
of Mr. W. H. Prior (for fifty 
years an artist on wood) ; he was 

educated at Boulogne, 

and was appointed . 

special artist to The 

Illustrated London 

News in 1873. He 


AGE 16. 

From a Photograph. 

age 3. 
From a Photograph. 

has been through no 
fewer than fourteen 
different campaigns 
— namely, Ashantee, 
Spanish and Carlist, 

AGE 21. 

From a Photo, by C. B. Tayler, Strand. 

H erzogovinian, 
Servia, Turko- Rus- 
sian, Kaffir, Basuto, 
Zulu, Boer, Egyp- 
tian (1882), Soudan 
Expedition, British 
Soudan Expedition, 
Nile Expedition, 
and Burmese — 
receiving eight 
wounds from bullets 
and fragments of 
shells, being re- 
ported three times 

From a Photo, by] 

age 40. IFaber, San Francisco. 

in the London papers as killed. Mr. Prior has 
been round the world twice, and has visited 
nearly every country and capital in the world ; 
and made sketches at nearly every important 
wedding, from that of the Prince and Princess 
of Wales down to the Czar of Russia's, and, 
said Mr. Prior the other day, " I feel quite 
ready for as much travelling and sketching as 
I have already done ! " 

From a\ age 28. {Photograph. 

From a Photo, by] present day. 

Punch and Judy. 

By Alfred T. Story. 

HO has not wasted a pleasant 
half-hour watching the antics 
of Punch, even when we 
ought to have been on more 
important business? I once 
remember seeing the late 
Prime Minister lingering on the edge of a 
crowd in Parliament Street while the 
immortal drama was being enacted under 
" the pale glimpses of the moon." It was a 

night on which there was an important 
debate, in which the Grand Old Man 
delivered a telling speech ; and who knows 
but he made his points the better for the few 
minutes he allowed his mind to be relaxed 
by watching the exploits of the grand old 
hero of the curbstone-play that has run a 
greater number of nights than even " Hamlet," 
or any of the other famous plays that con- 
tinue to hold our stage ? 



We are never tired of it ; no one is ever 
tired of it. We have all watched it as children, 
and when we grow old we like it as well as 
ever. But whereas it was in former days on 
the village green that we witnessed it, or in 
the convenient by-street, we may see it now 
in the dining-room, or, if it be summer-time, 
on the lawn. Formerly it was thought only 
fit for the " rude mechanicals " of the village 
street or the market-place ; it is now the 
fashion for society to indulge in it, and for 
Royalty even to look upon it with pleasure, 
so good is it for everyone to get a touch every 
now and again of rude, unsophisticated 
Nature. And Punch and Judy is rude, and 
for the most part very unsophisticated. We 
are, however, softening down even this 
specimen of " good old " aboriginal humour, 
and now it more frequently closes with a 
" nigger " song, or something of that nature, 
than, as formerly, with the death of the 
Father of Evil. 

It was my good fortune recently to come 
across the " Royal " Punch and Judy show — 
one beloved of the Royal children for two, if 
not three, generations — and to get photo- 
graphs of some of the scenes of the im- 
mortal drama. These I propose to give, 
and to accompany them with some of the 
text of the original play, at the same time 
indicating where innovations have been in- 

As regards the origin and history of Punch 
and Judy, there is as much dispute amongst 
authorities as touching the birthplace of 
Homer. But on one point there appears to 
be little, if any, doubt ; and that is, that the 
comedy came to us from Italy, where it was 
popular in the Middle Ages, as Punchinello, 
(contracted with us to simple Punch). The 


original characters were : Punch ; his wife 
Judy ; the Baby ; Toby, the dog ; Scara- 
mouch, transmogrified later into the Clown ; 
a Courtier ; a Doctor ; Constable ; the 
Hangman, etc. In short, the four chief 
characters are always the same ; the others 
change somewhat according to localities, 
national requirements, etc. 

Mr. Punch is well known nearly all over 
Europe, as well as wherever the English 
tongue is spoken. Toby always has the 
distinction of being performed by a living 
individual, if one may speak of a humble 
member of the canine family as an individual. 
It is popularly thought that a dog of breed 
only can be trained to take the part of Toby. 
This is a mistake, as I was informed by Mr. 
Jesson, whom we may designate the " Short " 
of the firm which " runs " the Royal Punch 
and Judy, his son taking the part of 
" Codlin," albeit nothing like the immortal 
" friend " in character. Indeed, it is not at 
all improbable that Mr. Jesson's father was 
the original of Mr. Dickens's "Short," he 
having performed with the " dolls " for some- 
thing like sixty years, while his son has been in 
the profession forty years. Grandpere Jesson, 
now, of course, defunct, chiefly frequented 
London and the home counties, although 
he made wide stretches now and again for 
variety's sake, and " to see a bit of life," as 
his son puts it. 

But to return to Toby. The part is 
always taken by a mongrel ; nothing else in 
the canine line will stand the training. The 
Toby of the present Royal Punch and Judy is 
eleven years old, and he has taken the part 
since he was a few months old. His father 
was twenty-three years old when he was 
born, and he too had been in the profession — 
on the stage so to speak 
— since he was a puppy. 
This does away with 
another popular tradi- 
tion, namely, that the 
life of a Punch and 
Judy dog was six years, 
never more. But per- 
haps in the " good old 
times," when there was 
so much tramping and 
rough weather to be 
and in addi- 
tion, possi- 
bly, so much 
hard train- 
ing, six years 
may have 



been the span of life allotted to Toby. But 
things are changed now, and the life of the 
Punch and Judy man, and dog, has fallen 
in pleasant places compared with what was 
formerly the case. 

There has been a general elevation of the 
stage — thanks to Sir Henry Irving et autres ; 
and Punch and Judy has gone up with the 
rest. It is now one of the professions to be 
looked up to, and there is some talk of train- 
ing younger sons for it, instead of sending 
them into the Church and to cattle-ranching 
in the Far West. There is more money to 
be made in it than in stock-broking, the fine 
arts, journalism, or gold-mining, and when 
you are good, you play to Royalty, and put 
up the Royal Arms. 

Mr. Jesson " shook the dolls " before the 
Prince of Wales and his brothers and sisters 
when they were little children, and he 
remembers His Royal Highness laughing till 
the tears ran down his face when Punch 
rolled the baby about as though he were 
making a roly-poly pudding of it, in order, 
as he said, " to soothe it to sleep." The 
others were amused, but none laughed like 
the Prince of Wales. 

Says Mr. Jesson, with pride, " I've played 
before the Prince's children, too, and they 
were just as pleased as their father used to be." 
He adds, " I've played at Windsor, at Marl- 
borough House, at Buckingham Palace, at 
Osborne, at Frogmore, and at Sandringham." 

" You do pretty well, then ? " we naturally 

" Oh, yes, I make enough at Christmas to 
keep me the year round, if I liked to be idle 
the rest of the year." 

It should, perhaps, be said here, lest too 
many of those in search of a profession should 
rush in, that to be a Punch and Judy show- 
man is not so easy as might at first sight 
appear. Apart from the fact that there is a 
good deal of dialogue to commit to memory, 
and that, in our days, novelties must be intro- 
duced from time to time ; the one who aspires 
to perform with the dolls must be very ready- 
witted, quick to get up fresh " patter," good 
at repartee, and if not a Sims Reeves, at least 
distinctly " Sims-Reevesy " at a song. Then 
he must be something of a mechanical genius 
into the bargain. 

Listen to Mr. Jesson : " I make everything 
connected with the show myself. I make 
the frame and the hangings, paint the scenery 
and the drop-scene in front, do the carving 
above the stage, carve the heads of the dolls, 
and cut out and sew their clothes. In fact, 
there is nothing about the show I don't make 

myself— and my son can do it all, too. That 
gives us plenty of work to do at home, when 
we are not otherwise engaged. The dolls, 
you see, get so much knocking about that 
they only last about six months." 

In addition to all this hard work, there is 
another consideration which should be taken 
into account by those wishing to enter the 
profession. It is the danger attached to the 
calling. The performer with the dolls cannot 
do without the squeaker — and he may swallow 
it! And everyone who has committed such 
an error has died after it. 

However, if, after fairly considering the 
difficulties, the ambitious youth (or maiden, 
for, like medicine, the law, and other honour- 
able callings, the profession is open to the 
fair sex) should decide to take up with the 
dolls, he will find the following text, with a 
due admixture of his own brains, all that is 
required in the way of dialogue : — 

(Punch enters: and after a few preliminary 
squeaks he bows three times to the spectators — 
once in the centre, and once at each side of the 
stage, and then speaks as follows) : — 

Ladies and gentlemen, prav, how d'ye do ? 

If you're all happy, I'm happy too. 

Stop and hear my merry little play ; 

If I make you laugh, I need not make you pay. 

{After this Punch makes his bow and exit. 
He is then heard behind the scene singing, or 
rather squeaking, the song, " Mr. Punch is a 
Jolly Good Fellow") 

Formerly the tune used to be the popular 
one of " Malbrook," but nearly all performers 
nowadays have different tunes, generally 
picking up some of the popular airs of the 

{After squeaking for a minute or so behind 
the scene, Punch makes his appearance and 
dances upon the stage, while he sings) : — 
Mr. Punch is a jolly good fellow, 
His dress is all scarlet and yellow ; 
And if now and then he gets mellow, 
It's only among his good friends. 

{He continues to dance and sing, and then 
calls) : Judy, my dear ! Judy ! 

{This constitutes the first scene of the play. 
The second scene opens with the entrance of 
dog Toby. Punch salutes him with) : 
Halloa, Toby ! Who call'd you ? How do 
ye do, Mr. Toby ? Hope you are very well, 
Mr. Toby ? 

( To which Toby answers with a snarl or a 
bark) : Bow-wow-wow ! 

Punch : Poor Toby ! {Putting his handout 
cautiously, and trying to coax the dog, who 
snaps at it) : Toby, you are a nasty, cross 
dog. Get away with you ! {Strikes at him.) 



Toby : Bow-wow-wow ! {seizing Punch by 
the nose). 

Punch : Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! Oh, my 
nose ! My poor nose ! My beautiful nose ! 
Get away ! Get away, you nasty dog. I'll 
tell your master. Oh, dear ! dear ! Judy ! 

(Punch shakes his nose, but cannot shake 
off the dog, who follows him as he retreats 
round the stage. He continues to call " Judy ! 
Judy, my dear ! " until the dog quits his hold 
and exits.) 

Punch (solus, and rubbing his nose with both 
hands) : Oh, my nose ! my pretty little nose ! 
Judy ! Judy ! You nasty, nasty brute, I 
will tell your master of you. Mr. Scara- 
mouch ! (calls) My good friend, Mr. Scara- 
mouch ! Look what your nasty brute of a 
dog has done ! 

(Enter Scaramouch, the clown, with a 

Scaramouch : Halloa, Mr. Punch ! What 
have you been doing to my poor dog ? 

Scaramouch : Where ? 

Punch : In your hand ? 

Scaramouch : A fiddle. 

Punch : A fiddle ! What a pretty thing 
is a fiddle ! Can you play upon that fiddle ? 

Scaramouch : Come here, and I'll try. 

Punch : No, thank you. I can hear the 
music where I am very well. 

Scaramouch : Then you shall try yourself. 
Can you play ? 

Punch (coming in) : I do not know till I 
try. Let me see ! ( Takes the stick and moves 
slowly about, singing some popular tune. He 
hits Scaramouch a slight blow on his cap, as 
if by accident.) 

Scaramouch : You play very well, Mr. 
Punch. Now let me try. I will give you a 
lesson how to play the fiddle. ( Takes the stick 
and dances to the same tune, hitting Punch a 
hard blow on the back of the head.) There's 
sweet music for you ! 

Punch : I do not like your playing so well 
as my own. Let me play again. (Takes the 


Punch (retreating 
behind the scene, on ob- 
serving the stick, and 
peeping round the 

corner) : Ha ! my good friend, how d'y' do ? 
Glad to see you look so well ! (Aside) I 
wish you were further with your nasty great 

Scaramouch : You have been beating and 
ill-using my poor dog, Mr. Punch. 

Punch : He has been biting and ill-using 
my poor nose, Mr. Scaramouch. What have 
you got there, sir ? 

stick and dances as before. In the course of 
the dance he gets behind Scaramouch, and, 
with a violent blow, knocks his head clean off 
his shoulders.) How d'y' like that tune, my 
good friend ? Is that sweet music, or sour 
music, eh ? He, he, he ! (laughing and 
throwing away the stick). You'll never hear 
such another tune so long as you live, my 
boy. (Sings the tune of " Malbrook" or 
some other, and dances to it.) Judy ! Judy, 
my dear ! Judy> can't you answer, my dear? 
Judy (within) : Well ! What do you want, 
Mr. Punch? 




Punch : Come upstairs. I want you. 
Judy : Then want must be your master. 
I'm busy. 

Punch {singing) : — 

The answer is genteel and civil ! 
No wonder, you think, if we live ill. 
And I wish her sometimes much evil. 
Since that's all the answer I get. 

Judy, my dear ! (calling). Judy, my pet ! 
Pretty Judy, come upstairs. 

{Enter Judy.) 

Judy : Well, here I am ! What do you 
want now I'm come ? 

Punch (aside) : What a pretty creature ! 

Judy : What do you want, I say ? 

Punch : A kiss ! A pretty kiss ! {Kisses 
her, while she gives him a slap in the face.) 

Judy : Take that, then ! Now, how do 
you like my kisses ? Will you have another? 

Punch : No ; one at a time — one at a 
time, my sweet, pretty wife. {Aside) : She 
always is so playful. 
Where's the child ? 
Fetch me the child, 
Judy, my dear. 
{Exit Judy.) 

Punch {solus) : 
There's a wife for 
you ! What a pre- 
cious, darling crea- 
ture. She has 
gone to fetch the 

{Re - enter Judy 
with child.) 

Judy : Here's the 

child — Pretty dear ! 

It knows its papa. 

Take the child. 

Punch {holding 
Vol, X — 59. 

out his hands) : 
Give it me, pretty 
little thing ! 

Judy : How awk- 
ward you are ! 

Punch : Give it 
me. I know how 
to nurse it as well 
as you do. {She 
gives it to him.) Get 
away ! {Exit Judy, 
Punch nursing 
child in his arms.) 
What a pretty baby 
it is ! Was it sleepy 
then ? Hush-a-by- 
by ! {Sings to the 
tune of " Rest thee, 

Oh, rest thee, my baby, 
Thy daddy is here ; 

Thy mammy's a gaby, 
And that's very clear. 

Poor, dear little thing ! It cannot get to 
sleep. By-by, by-by, hush-a-by. Well, then, 
it shan't. (Dances the child, and then sets it 
on his lap, between his knees, and sings a 
nursery ditty.) 

{After nursing it upon his lap, Punch sticks 
the child against the side of the stage, or the 
platform, and going himself to the opposite side, 
runs tip to it, clapping his hands, and crying: 
" Catchee, catchee, catchee ! " He then takes 
it up again, and it begins to cry.) What is 
the matter with it ? Poor thing ! It has got 
the tummy-ache, I daresay. {Child cries.) 
Hush-a-by ! Hush-a-by ! {sitting down and 
rolling it on his knees.) Naughty child ! 
Judy ! {calls) the child has got the tummy- 
ache. {Child continues to cry.) Keep quiet, 


4 66 



can't you ? {Hits it a box on the ear.) Hold 
your tongue ! {Strikes the child several times 
against the side of the stage.) There — there 
— there ! How do you like that ? I thought 
I should stop your squalling. Get along with 
you, you naughty, crying child. {Throws it 
over t lie front of the stage among the spectators.) 
He ! he ! he ! {Laughing and singing.) 
{Re-enter Judy.) 

Judy : Where's the child ? 

Punch : Gone— gone to sleep. 

Judy : What have you done with the child, 
I say ? 

Punch : Gone to sleep, I say. 

Judy : What have you done with it? 

Punch : What have I done with it ? 

Judy : Aye, done with it ? I heard it crying 
just now. Where is it ? 

Punch : How should I know ? 

Judy : I heard you make the pretty 
darling cry. 

Punch : I dropped 
it out of the window. 

Judy : Oh, you 
cruel, horrid wretch, 
to drop the pretty 
baby out of the win- 
dow. Oh ! {cries, 
and wipes her eyes 
with the corner of 
her aproii) you barr 
barous man. Oh ! 
I'll make you pay for 
this, depend on it. 

Punch : There she 
goes. What a to-do 
about nothing ! 
{Dances about and 
sings, beating time 

with his head, as he 
turns round, on the 
front of the stage.) 

{Re - enter Judy 
with a stick ; she 
comes in behind, and 
hits Punch a blow 
on the back of the 
head, before he is 

Judy : I'll teach 
you to drop my 
child out of the 

Punch: So-o- 
oftly, Judy, so-o- 
oftly ! {Rubbing the 
back of his head 
with his hand.) 
Don't be a fool, now. What are you at ? 

Judy : What ! You'll drop my poor baby 
out of the window again, will you ? {Hitting 
him continually on the head.) 

Punch : No, I never will again. {She still 
hits him.) Softly, I say, softly. A joke's a 

Judy : Oh, you nasty, cruel brute ! {Hitting 
him again.) I'll teach you ! 

Punch : But I do not like such teaching. 
What ! You are in earnest, are you ? 
Judy : Yes {hit) I {hit) am (hit). 
Punch : I'm glad of it. I don't like such 
jokes. {She hits him again.) Leave off, I say. 
What ! you won't, won't you ? 
Judy : No, I won't {hits him). 
Punch : Very well. Then now comes my 
turn to teach you. {He snatches at and 
struggles with her for the stick, which he 
wrenches from her, and strikes her with it on 
the head, tvhile she runs about to different 




parts of the stage to get oat of his way.) How 
do you like my teaching, Judy, my pretty 
dear ? ( Hitting her. ) 

Judy : Oh, pray, Mr. Punch — no more ! 

Punch : Yes, one more little lesson (hits 
her again). There, there, there ! (She falls 
down with her head over the platform of the 
stage, and as he continues to hit her, she puts 
up her hand to guard her head.) Any more ? 

Judy : No, no ; no more (lifting up her 

Punch (knocking down her head) : I 
thought I should soon make you quiet. 

Judy (again raising her head) : No. 

Punch (again knocking it down, and 
following up his blo%vs till she is lifeless) : 

the centre, the music would cease, and sud- 
denly his neck would begin to elongate until 
it was longer than all the rest of his body. 
After remaining thus for some time the head 
would sink again; and as soon as it had 
descended to its natural place, the figure 
would exit. 

After this bit of business Punch was wont 
to come on with his famous horse, Hector, and 
prance round the stage several times. There 
used to be a showman in the north named 
Bailey who made a great deal of this scene. 
Mr. Jesson remembered the man very well, 
and said that he was one of the best per- 
formers with the dolls to be found anywhere. 
He added that this artist died in London 


Now, if you're satisfied, I am. (Perceiving 
that she does not move.) There, get up, Judy, 
my dear. I won't hit you any more. None 
of your sham-Abram. This is only your fun. 
Have you got the headache ? You are only 
asleep. Get up, I say ! Well, then, get 
down. (Tosses the body down with the end of 
his stick.) He, he, he (laughing). To lose a 
wife is to get a fortune ! 

Thus ends the first act. 

The second act used, in our boyhood days, 
to open with the entrance of a figure like a 
courtier, who sang a slow air and moved to it 
with great gravity. He would first take off 
his hat on one side and then on the other 
side of the stage. Then he would stop in 

about seven years ago, and that there had 
been no one to touch him since. The finish 
of the scene was that Punch was thrown, and 
he, thinking he was killed, cried out for the 
doctor to come and bring him to life again. 
At present, when the gee-gee is left out, 
Punch is mauled by one of the other 
characters, and he shouts for the doctor. 
Whereupon the doctor enters, and the follow- 
ing dialogue ensues : — 

Doctor : Who calls so loud ? 

Punch : Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! Murder ! 
Murder ! 

Doctor : What is the matter ? Bless 
me, who is this ? My good friend, Mr. 
Punch ? Have you had an accident, or 



are you taking a nap on the grass after 
dinner ? 

Punch : Oh, Doctor ! Doctor : I have been 
thrown — I have been killed. 

Doctor : No, no, Mr. Punch— not so bad 
as that, sir. You are not killed. 

Punch : Not killed, but speechless. Oh, 
Doctor ! Doctor ! 

Doctor : Where are you hurt ? Is it 
here ? {touching his head). 

Punch : No, lower. 

game are you up to now ? Have done. 
What have you got there ? 

Doctor : Physic, Mr. Punch — {hitting 
him) — physic for your hurt. 

Punch : I do not like physic ; it gives me 
a headache. 

Doctor : That's because you do not take 
enough of it. {Hits him again.) The more 
you take, the more good it will do you. 

Punch : So you doctors always say. Try 
how you like it yourself. 


: Here ? {touching his breast). 
No, lower, lower. 
: Here, then ? {going downivards) 
No, lower still. 
: Then, is your handsome 

No, higher. 

Doctor leans over Punch's 
them, Punch kicks him in 




Punch : 


Punch : 

broken ? 

Punch : 

{As the 
to examine 

Doctor : Oh, my eye ! my eye ! {Exit.) 

(It should be said that sometimes it is 
Punch who gets the kick in the eye.) 

Punch {solus) : Aye, you are right enough. 
It is my eye and Betty Martin too. {Jump- 
ing up, and dancing and singing.) 

The Doctor is merely an ass, sirs, 
To think I'm as brittle as glass, sirs ; 
But I only fell down on the grass, sirs, 
And my hurt — it is all in my eye ! 

( While Punch is singing and dancing, the 
Doctor enters behind with a stick, and hits 
Punch several times on the head.) 

Punch ; Halloa, halloa, Doctor ! What 

Doctor : We never take our own physic 
if we can help it. {Hits him.) A little 
more, Mr. Punch, and you will soon be well. 
{Hits him. During this part of the dialogue, 
the Doctor chases Punch to different parts of 
the stage, and at last gets him into a corner, 
and belabours him until Punch seems almost 

Punch : Oh, Doctor ! Doctor ! No more, 
no more ! Enough physic for me. I am 
quite well now. 

Doctor: Only another dose {hitting 

Punch : No more ! Turn and turn about 
is fair play, you know. (Punch makes a 
desperate effort, closes with the Doctor, and, 
after a struggle, succeeds in getting the stick 
from him.) Now, Doctor, it is your turn to 
be physicked {beating the Doctor). 

Doctor : Halloa, Mr. Punch. I don't 
want any physic, my good sir. 

Punch : Oh, yes, you do ; you are very 
bad. You must take it. I'm the doctor 
now. {Hits him.) How do you like physic ? 



(Hits htm.) It will do you good (hit). This 
will soon cure you (hit). 

Doctor : Oh, pray, Mr. Punch, no more ! 
One pill of that physic is a dose. 

Punch : Doctors always die when they 
take their own physic (hitting him). Another 
small dose and you will never want physic 
again. (Hitting him. Here the Doctor falls 
down dead, and Punch, as before, tosses away 
the body with the end of his staff.) He, he, 
he ! (laughing). Now, Doctor, you may cure 
yourself if you can. (Sings and dances, and 
then exit.) 

Punch now enters with a large sheep-bell, 
which he rings violently, while he dances 
about the stage. He then sings a song, 
beginning, " Mr. Punch is a very gay man." 
In the midst of this there formerly entered 
a servant dressed in a foreign livery; but the 
servant is now generally done away with, and 
we have a policeman in his stead. The 
policeman begins by ordering him to go 


away, because a gentleman, or " an old 
woman," who lives near by, won't have the 

Punch (with surprise and mocking him) : 
The gentleman he says he don't like that 
noise ! What noise ? 

Policeman : That nasty noise. 

Punch : Do you call music a noise ? 

Policeman : The gentleman don't like 
music, Mr. Punch. So we'll have no more 
music near his house. 

Punch : He don't, don't he ? Very well. 
(Punch runs about the stage, ringing the bell 
as loudly as he can.) 

Policeman : Get away, I say, with that 
nasty bell. 

Punch ; What bell ? 

Policeman : That bell (striking it with 
his hand). 

Punch : That's a good one. Do you call 
this a bell ? Why, it is an organ ! 

Policeman : I say it's a bell — a nasty 

Punch : I say it is an organ (striking him 
with it). What do you say it is now ? 
Policeman : An organ, Mr. Punch. 
Punch : An organ ? It is a fiddle. Can't 
you see? (Offers to strike him again.) 
Policeman : It is a fiddle. 
Punch : I say it is a drum. 
Policeman : It is a drum, Mr. Punch. 
Punch : I say it is a trumpet. 
Policeman : Well, so it is a trumpet. But, 
bell, organ, fiddle, drum, or trumpet, the 
gentleman he says he does not like music. 

Punch : Then bell, organ, fiddle, drum, or 
trumpet, Mr. Punch he says the gentleman's 
a fool. 

Policeman : And he says he'll not have it 
near his house. 

Punch : He's a 
fool, I say, not to 
like my sweet 
music. Tell him 
so. Be off. (Hits 
him tvith the bell.) 
Get along. (Driv- 
ing the Policeman 
round the stage 
backwards, and 
striking him often 
with the bell.) Be 
off, be off. (Knock- 
ing him off the 
stage. Punch 
continues to ring 
the bell as loudly 
as before, while he 
sings and dances?) 
(Re-enter Policeman, slily, with a stick.) 
(Punch, perceiving him, retreats behind the 
side curtain, and remains upon the watch. 
The Policeman does the same, but leaves the 
end of the stick visible. Punch again comes 
forward, puts down his bell very gently, and 
creeps across the stage, to ascertain whereabouts 
the enemy is. He then returns to his bell, 
takes it up, and going quietly over the stage, 
hits the Policeman a heavy blow through the 
curtain, and exit, leaving his bell on the 
opposite side.) 

Policeman : You nasty, noisy, impudent 
blackguard, I'll have you. (Hides again 
as before.) 

(Enter Punch, and strikes him as before 
with the bell. The Policeman pops out, and 



aims a blow, but not quickly enough to hit 
Punch, who exit.) 

Policeman : You scoundrel, rascal, thief, 
vagabond, blackguard — you shall pay for this, 
depend on it. 

{He stands back. Enter Punch with his 
bell, who, seeing the Policeman with his 
stick, retreats instantly, and returns, also 
armed with a bludgeon, which he does not at 
first show. The Policeman comes forward 
and strikes Punch on the head so hard a 
blow that it seems to confuse him.) 

Policeman : I'll teach you how to ring 
your nasty noisy bell near the gentlemen's 

Punch (recovering) : Two can play at that. 
(Hits the Policeman with his stick. A conflict 
ensues, during which the combatants exchange 
staves and perform various manczuvres. 
Punch knocks his antagonist down on the 
platform by repeated blows on the head.) 

Policeman : Oh, dear ! Oh, my head ! 

Punch : Oh, your head, eh ? (Hitting him 
again.) How do you like that, and that, and 
that ? (Hitting him each time.) Do you 
like that music better than the other ? 
There ! a whole concert for you. 

Policeman : No more ! I'm dead. 

Punch : Quite dead ? 

Policeman : Yes, quite dead. 

Punch : Then, there's the last for luck. 
(Hits him and kills him. He then takes hold 
of the body by its legs, and throws it away.) 

At this point, the modern play usually goes 
off into all kinds of comic " business " in 
order to amuse the children without wounding 
their tender susceptibilities ; but in the real, 
legitimate play, the hero, after a short scene 
in which he knocks a blind beggar about, is 
confronted with the constable, when the 
following dialogue 
takes place : — 

Constable : Leave 
off your singing, Mr. 
Punch, for I'm going 
to make you sing on 
the other side of your 

Punch : Why, who 
are you ? 

Constable : Don't 
you know me ? 

Punch : No, and 
don't want to know 

Constable : Oh, 
but you must. I am 
the constable. 

Punch. : I don't 

want the constable. I can settle my business 
without the constable. 

Constable : But the constable wants you. 

Punch : Does he, indeed ? What for, pray ? 

Constable : You killed Mr. Scaramouch. 
You knocked his head clean off his 

Punch : What's that to you ? If you stay 
here much longer I shall serve you the same. 

Constable : You have committed murder, 
and I have a warrant for you. 

Punch : And I have a warrant for you. 
(Punch knocks him down and then dances and 
sings about the stage.) 

(Enter an Officer, usually in a cocked hat, 
sometimes in the costume of a police-officer.) 

Officer : Stop your noise, my fine fellow ! 

Punch : Sha'n't. 

Officer : I'm an officer. 

Punch : Did I say you were not ? 

Officer : You must go with me. You 
killed your wife and child. 

Punch : They were my own, I suppose ! 
Haven't I a right to do what I like with my 

Officer : We shall see about that ! I'm 
come to take you up. 

Punch : And I'm come to take you down. 
(Punch knocks him down, and sings and 
dances as before.) 

At this point there is usually some comic 
business, Scaramouch, or the clown, coming 
to life, and greatly surprising Punch by put- 
ting his head through the window, and when 
Punch strikes at him with his stick, dodging 
out and in, and back and forth, with much 
agility. Then follows some amusement from 
the Clown placing Punch's corpses upon the 
platform, and bothering Punch by counting 
one more than he does, the odd one being 





made by inserting himself amongst the dead 

In the "good old original" drama there 
is another and final scene in which Punch 
triumphs either over the hangman or over 
the arch-enemy of mankind himself ; but 
it is probably never represented now, even 
Bailey — he who was " the best man that 
ever performed the dolls," refraining from 
putting in this scene because " it was apt 
to harrow the feelings of the little ones 
and give them bad dreams": which sentiment 
shows that there may be good and kindly 
feelings in the humble performer of the way- 
side and the village green. For Bailey was 
never anything more than that ; his lot 
having been cast in Punch's pre-Royalty and 
fashionable society days. It is, however, 
customary with some handlers of the dolls to 
finish up with the introduction of the bogey 
man, who gives Punch a good frightening. 
Nothing delights the children so much as this. 

The present palmy days for Punch, accord- 
ing to Mr. Jesson, date from about thirty years 
ago. " People then began to write about the 
show," said he, "and that led to its becoming 
more popular, and being taken up by the 
rich ; and," added he, " its popularity grows 
year by year." These things astonished Mr. 

Bailey, who, though mellow with age, was 
still in the green, so to speak, of the country- 
side, and had not seen " London Town " for 
over thirty years. He was one who kept to 
the legitimate drama, not only in respect of 
the dramatis personal, dialogue, etc., but also 
as regards the general paraphernalia of the 
show. He would as soon have thought of 
washing his hands in " brown October," as of 
performing to anything but the drum and 
pipes, or wearing anything but the good old 
white hat — such a stickler was he in these 

Speaking of the music of the show, every 
lover of Punch and Judy must hold that the 
introduction of the dulcimer and other the 
like fantastical instruments, in place of the 
Pandean pipes and the drum, is of the nature 
of an impertinence, and ought not to be 
tolerated. But this, as well as other matters 
connected with Punch and Judy, will, I 
understand, be seen to shortly ; as, following 
in the wake of the Browning, the Goethe, 
the Ancient Monuments, and other similar 
societies, there is to be a Punch and Judy 
Society ; or, at least, so it is whispered. 

*This worthy's definition of a gentleman is characteristic. 
" Well, you see," said he, " a gem'man is always pleased to see 
the children happy, and he never stands before a lady." 



WML j*8 




3 . "is IT really a fact," inquired the hare, "that you lions are terrified by the crowing of a cock?' 


4.—" certainly ! " replied the lion, "we large animals are generally possessed of some trivial weakness, 
the elephant, for example, will tremble at the grunt of a pig." 

"ah!" interrupted the hare, "now i understand why we hares have such an unaccountable dislike 
for the dogs." 

Vol. x.— 60. 



Scene : Summer night. Well furnished study in good house. Study table, upon which 
are a shaded lamp, litter of papers, and writing materials. French windows opening on to 
law 7i. A lounging chair placed with its back towards window 7iot quite closed, and sufficiently 
distant for it to be easily pushed wider open. 

Time, io p.m. 
Dramatis Persons : - 

Mgr. Beresford : Master of the house, about twenty-eight years of age, in evening clothes, 
walking slowly to and fro, glancing every now and then anxiously at his wife. 

Mrs. Beresford : His wife, about twenty, wearing a becoming tea-gown, seated before 
writing-table pen in hand. 

Police-Constable. Manservant James. Present : Husband and Wife. 


I think you might come 
with me, Peggy. 

She : Oh, it will be such a 
crush. Much pleasanter here 
than in those crowded rooms, 
Jack. Make some pretty ex- 
cuses to Aunt Elinor for me. I really must 
write this, and the house is so quiet and nice 
at this time. 

He : Must ? The story, do you mean ? 
You speak as though you were writing 
against time — forced to earn money to pay 
the butcher's bill. 

She : You don't understand. It's the 
artistic temperament that involves the " must." 
If I could only have seen one. {Medita- 
tively. ) 

He : An artistic temperament ? 

She : Now, Jack ! I meant a burglar. I 

was wishing that I knew just enough about 
one to be able to describe him quite 
accurately — realistically, you know. Didn't 
you help to capture one at the Colonel's once 
— before we were married ? How did he 
speak ? What did he look like ? 

He : The low scoundrel, he was. Why 
do you want to write about such people, 
Peggy ? 

She : Stories should be exciting and 
realistic in these days, and you would not 
like me to write about people with pasts 
you know, Jack, even if I knew any, which I 
do not. 

He (aside) : Happy ignorance ! (72? Her): 
No, that would certainly be worse than the 

She : You see, it is such a drawback to 
have so little experience of what is going on 



in the world. Brought up in a country- 
home, and happy as the day was long, I 
really cannot remember anything more excit- 
ing than the death of the old pony, when 
we all cried ourselves ill. And now, married 
to — well, I suppose I must not make you 
vain, and you really did choose me, didn't 
you, Jack ? 

He : And would choose you again, darling, 
if I were free. 

She : That's just lovely to hear. But who 
besides ourselves would care for the history 
of it? 

He : The only way to make it interesting 
to other people would be for us to begin to 
quarrel before them, and so give them the 
opportunity to point a moral about what 
comes of love matches, I suppose. 

She : Quarrel ! You and I ? That 
would be too dreadful, Jack. 

He : It seems to me that the only thing 

we could differ about would be 1 say, 

Peggy, I wish you would give up the writing 

She : Give it up ? Acknowledge that I 
am beaten ? 

He : Why not, if you are ? 

She : But I don't allow that I am beaten, 
Jack — not yet, at any rate. {Takes a sheet of 
paper from the table, and reads it to herself 
writing a word of correction here and there.) 

He {aside, looking at her with kindly 
anxiety) : I wish she hadn't gone in for that 
sort of thing; there's no necessity, and it 
only seems to bother her. Had she taken a 
fancy for anything money could buy, she 
should have it, cost what it might. It's that 
Fitzallan woman egging Peggy on, for her 
own purposes. Wants to make her a woman 
of the world after her own pattern, I suppose, 
and is persuading her she ought to do some- 
thing that would give her more prominence 
in society — something clever, as it's called. 
Peggy is clever enough for anything ; but 
it's the kind of cleverness that wears 
best at home. I'm not afraid for her in 
the long run, only I should like to spare 
her the disillusionment that must come as to 
the opinions of such women as Mrs. Fitzallan. 
To see such ideas ventilated by my Peggy 
would be more than I could stand. If I could 
only manage to show her something like the 
reality, so that she might use her own judgment 
about it, I believe she wouldn't Avant to write 

about burglars. I've half a mind to {looks 

meditatively at her as she sits biting the top of 
her pen and gazing anxiously at the page of 
writing.) She's got lots of pluck, and I 
would take good care to go no farther than 

she could bear — I will do it! {To Her): 
Well, if you won't come, I suppose I must 
go alone, but I shall not stay long. {Goes 
to her side, takes her face between his hands, 
and kisses her.) 

She : Very well, Jack. You will find me 
here when you come back, I daresay. Lots 
of love to auntie and the girls. And be sure 
to waltz with Alice. She does not get too 
many partners, you know. 

He : All right. {Goes out.) 

She {looking after him as he goes) : Now, 
of all the dears, Jack is the very dearest. 
That's what I tell Mrs. Fitzallan. It's no use 
talking to me about the wickedness of men 
when there's my Jack to prove the contrary. 
She says I should write ever so much better if 
I knew the ways of the world — especially men's 
ways. But I know Jack's ways, and if he has a 
fault or two — well, so have I, and we care for 
each other all the same. Only — well, I should 
like Jack to hear me called clever. People look 
down upon you if you can't do something to 
show you have some originality, Mrs. Fitzallan 
says. I shouldn't have the courage to whistle 
or skirt dance, and, besides, they are out or 
nearly out. A strong, realistic story might 
do something for one — only it must be pessi- 
mistic and up to date. Only stupid people 
are satisfied with descriptions of everyday life, 
she says. She is always hinting with that 
superior air of hers that I am country-bred. 
I did make her change colour when I gave 
that little retort about not always finding 
good breeding in town. I really am dread- 
fully happy and content with everything; from 
Jack to my dear home and the lots of pretty 
things he surrounds me with ; and if I could 
only do something striking just for once, so 
that people could tell Jack he had a clever wife, 
there would be nothing left to wish for. What 
others think doesn't matter in the least, 
but I don't want him to feel that his country 
wife is not capable of holding her own. But 

how in the world ? It really seems as 

though I couldn't write about anything but 
love and happiness, and that wouldn't do at 
all — quite old-fashioned, she would say. If 
Jack were not kind there would be no hap- 
piness for me — it would just break my heart. 
Not that that would matter, Mrs. Fitzallan 
seems to think. Says Mrs. Gray's has been 
broken over and over again, and that she 
writes all the better for it. I prefer not to 
write better that way. No; I will try the 
burglar, and if 

{The sound of something falling in the 
adjacent room causes her to look round, a little 



She : What was that ? Someone in the 
next room ! I thought the servants were 
gone to bed. (Rises to her feet, then sinks 
back into her seat again with a look of astonish- 
ment and dismay. The door is slowly pushed 
open and a man is seen standing on the 
threshold, carrying his roots in his hand.) 

Jack Beresford (disguised as a burglar, 
with a patch over one eye and wearing a black 
wig under the battered-looking, low-crowned 
hat, a beard covering his 
chin, a red handkerchief 
knotted loosely round his 
throat, and rough, untidy 

He : Don't you be 
afeared, mum (speaking 
thickly, as though there 
were something in his 
mouth, and dropping his 
boot again as he awk- 
wardly touches his hat). 

She : Who are you ? 
What brings you here ? 
(Catching up a dagger- 
shaped silver paper-knife, 
and raising it as if to 
strike). Advance a step 
nearer, at your peril ! 

He (aside) : Yes, you 
have lots of pluck, darling. 
How beautifully tragic you 
look with that paper-knife. 
But I must appear terri- 
fied. (Shrinking back and 
putting up one arm. To 
Her) : Don't murder me 
in cold blood, mum. I've 
got nothing to defend my- 
self with. 

She (aside) : I hope I 
don't look scared. (To 
Him, sternly) : Remain 
where you are. If you 
move a step forward I will 
not be answerable for the 

He : No offence, mum 
— no offence. I won't come no forrader. 

She : Why are you here ? 

He : I don't think you're the sort to give 
a man away when he owns up ; and I ain't 
going to deny nothing, mum. 

She : Who are you ? 

He : Now, look here, mum. It's no use my 
saying I came a-wisiting, for you know as well 
as I do that I wasn't inwited. I come in the 
way of business. I don't deny it. But if I 
promises upstraight and downright to go away 


without doing anybody any harm or taking a 
blessed thing that don't belong to me, will 
you let me go free, mum ? I see you've got 
a dagger to take keer of yourself with, and I 
see there's a bell just by your side, so you've 
plenty of help near if you want it, which you 
won't. You are on the safe side, and I don't 
see as you need be down upon a man who is 
ready to do the straight thing for once. 

She : You came to rob the house ? You 
are a — burglar? (Looking 
at him more attentively and 

He : Well, I don't deny 
as that's the name it goes 
by, mum. But a man's 
got to live somehow, call 
him what you like. We 
ain't all lucky enough to 
be born rich with a place 
like this to live in, all gen- 
teel and servants to wait 
on us. 

She (aside) : A burg- 
lar ! ( Gazing at him specu- 
latively for a moment or 
two) : He thinks I am 
armed, and could summon 
the servants. Horrid as 
he looks, too, he seems 
more frightened than dan- 
gerous. . Such a golden 
opportunity, too. I must 
— I will avail myself of it. 
(To Him, severely) : Of 
course I could summon 
assistance. There are 
menservants in the house, 
and you would be given 
in charge at once. But 
if you will give me your 
solemn promise to go away 
without doing any harm, I 

might perhaps " 

He : Let me go, mum. 
I'll take my solemn davy 


She : There is some- 
thing else. (Aside) : How in the world shall 
I put it to him? (To Him) : I am engaged 
upon a work. Before you go I should like 
to say a few words to you about — about — 
your way of life. 

He : Wants to conwert me. You're one 
of those ladies as takes an interest in us pore 
burglars. All right, mum, I'm ready. Been 
conwerted twice afore. The chaplin where I 
was a-wisitin' done it, and a real kind gent 
he was, too. Took as much pains as though 



I was his own brother, he did. 'Twould have 
been ongrateful not to have given in to him. 

She : Of course, I should be glad if any- 
thing I could say induced you to recognise 
how very wrong it is to do as you are doing ; 
but — (aside) — how can I say it to him ? 
How small it makes one feel. (To Him) : 
At present, I am desirous of collecting evi- 
dence — that is, of ascertaining how you came 
into the position you are in. And — and — if 
you could give me an account of some of 
your experiences — I moan the way you carry 
on your hor — sad trade, it might assist me 
in what I am doing. 

He : I see, mum ; going to give lecters or 
something of that sort. Some ladies like 
hearing them sort o' things. Curos to see 
the way they crowd into court when there's 
something uncommon in the way of badness 
to be heard. It's only got to be strong 

She (indignantly) : You are very 

He : No offence, mum. I didn't mean 
to be imperlite. And I don't mind telling 
you some of the secrets of our perfession. 
Come, row, if you'll promise not to give me 
away, I'll promise to take your word, and 
I can't say no fairer than that, can I ? 

She (aside) : How dreadfully coarse it all 

sounds. But now I have gone so far 

(To Him) : Very well, I promise to keep faith 
with you. 

He : That's more than a good many would 
be ready to say to one of us, mum. Jest 
you ask what you like and I'll give you the 
straight tip. They sha'n't say as you haven't 
seen the real thing and don't know what 
you're talking about. 


She (aside) : Horrid creature ! (To Him) : 
Sit on that chair (pointing to the lounging 
chair before the window opposite. Aside) : 
It can be burned afterwards. (He sits down 
on the edge of the chair, his hands upon his 

He (insinuatingly) : I dessay you wouldn't 
mind paying me a trifle for my time. You 
see, I might be doing a stroke of business. 
Not here, no, no; don't you be afeared of that, 
mum. I've give my word, and I sticks to it. 
But loss of time has got to be considered all 
the same. 

She (doubtfully) : I do not think I ought 
— it would be like — well, I will give you a 
sovereign to keep you from wrcng-doing. 

He (slapping his knee) : That's the way to 
put it, of course. Too clever to give yourself 

She : Clever, oh ! (Hesitating a few 
moments, then taking up her pen again. 
To Him) : Have you injured your eye? 

He (aside) : Now for it. I must take care 
to make it strong enough. (To Her): Got 
knocked out in a fight with my fust, mum. 

She (shrinking back) : Your first ? Your 
wife, do you mean ? 

He : Yes, mum ; but she didn't get the 
best of it neither, you may take your davy 
about that. It wor give and take between 

She: How very dreadful! (Once more 
shrinking back and laying down the pen.) 

He : So they said 
at the horsepital 
where she was took. 
She : Poor crea- 
ture ! Objected to 
your — your occupa- 
tion, I suppose ? 

He : Sail ? Not 
her. Helped me 
wonderful, Sail did 
— one of the best 
wives I've had, so 

She : One ! 
He (aside) : She's 
beginning to look 
horror-struck. I 
shall be able to 
make her lose in- 
terest in burglars 
before I've done. 
(To Her) : Lor' 
bless you, mum, they 
dies off pretty quick 
in our perfession. 
You see, you gets 



run in, and when you comes out, as like as 
not there ain't no wife waiting for you. 

She : I fear you have not been a good 

He : Doesn't do to spoil 'em, mum — 
leastways, not in our perfession. When you 
can both be genteel together, I dessay it's all 
very well. You haven't got to be a getting 
your gent's supper ready at two o'clock in the 
morning, perhaps, when he comes home 
dead-beat with scrambling over walls, and, 
maybe, half-a-dozen fights. 

She {aside): How dreadfully low it all 
sounds ! How could I write about such 

shocking things ? I almost wish (to Him) : 

But you were not always like this. There 
must have been a time when you were an 

innocent child. Did no one try to Did 

your mother die when you were too young 
to be taught right from wrong ? 

He : I wish she had, mum. A'most 
always in the public, mother was, and you 
may be sure there wasn't much for me to eat 
besides what I could pick up in the gutters 
when father wasn't lucky. 

She : What a bringing-up ! How very 
sad ! When did you begin to- — to ? 

He : Help myself, mum ? I was such a 
knowing little chap ; begun a'most as soon as 
I could toddle about and lay hold on any- 
thing that happened to be about. Right 
proud of me, father was — said I was cut out 
for the perfession, and, of course, he ought 
to know, for he was in it hisself. 

She : Things have indeed been against 
you. Have you broken into a house like 
this before? 

He {promptly) : Lots of times, mum. 
The richer people are, the more they've got 
to spare. No use going where there's nothing 
to be got. That stands to reason. 

She : But you are sometimes caught ? 
You say you have been in prison. 

He : Not so often as some. I've been 
pretty lucky, taking things all round. You 
see, when it comes to that, we can't be so 
very particular about getting rid of anything 
as stands in the way of making off. There 
was a old gent as made hisself unpleasant 
and showed fight, but he didn't trouble me 
nor anybody else after that. 

She (excitedly) : You cannot mean — oh, 
surely you did not injure him ? 

He : Don't you never trouble about him, 
mum. He was seventy-five if he was a day, 
and he couldn't have gone on much longer 
anyhow, and — Lor', mum, you needn't be 
frightened, you're safe enough. 

She : I'm not afraid, not in the least 

{making a demonstration with the paper-knife 
again. Aside) : At least, I hope I don't show 
that I am. 

He {sentimentally) : There was a young 
lady as lived in one of these big houses. She 
made herself inconvenient. You see, I only 
wanted what I went there for. But here she 
not only gives me her gimcracks, but she 
goes and falls in love with me and expects 
me to take her too. 

She : In love — with you ? Oh ! 

He : Yes, mum, and nothing would do 
but I must run away with her. I had to do 
it, too. 

She : This is really too shocking. 

He : That's what I said, mum. It was 
werry inconvenient too, and so she found it 
when she wanted her own way too much 
after we was married. She was that 
onreasonable, the very first time I gives her a 
tap she screeches out enough to wake the 
dead. It stands to reason as I couldn't put 
up with that, so, of course, she had to go. 

She (looking very horrified) : Go ? 

He : Well, that's the perlitest way I can 
put it, mum. But if you want the whole 
story, I jest twisted her long hair round my 
hands and banged 

She {interrupting) : Stop ! I cannot — I 
will not listen to such horrible things. You 
are a very wicked man ! 

He (aside) : My darling, I can't bear to 
shock you like this ; but, to make the cure 
complete, I must go on now, and you'll soon 
have had enough. (To Her): You ain't 
never going to be shocked at that ? Begging 
your pardin, mum, what did you expect when 
you knew what my perfession is ? Lor' bless 
you, we can't afford to stick at trifles when 
business is going on. You said you wanted 
to know all the ins and outs of our lives, and 
I've made it as proper as I could. 

She : Proper ! (Aside) : This, then, is 
what I was seeking to know ! How could 
I imagine it was so dreadfully low and wicked, 
and — put such talk as this man's into a story ! 
I would not soil the paper by writing about 
it. No one would believe it if I did. I 
would not have believed it myself yesterday. 
You were quite right, Jack, it is better not to 
know such things. But, monster as this man 
seems to be, I have given my word to him, 
and he must go free. Only I really ought 
first to show him what I, at least, think of his 
diabolical life. If Jack were only here— (adds, 
unconsciously speaking half aloud) — ah, Jack, 
if you only were ! 

He (with an ingratiating smile) : Did you 
speak ter me, mum ? Did you say Jack ? 



She {contemptuously) : Do you think it is 
possible I could address you in that way ? 

He : All right, mum. I thought I heard 
you say Jack, and that's my name — Jack. 
I was only going to observe, all perlite and 
respectful, that my old woman at home soots 
me wery well at present, and she's wery 

{The French window behind where he is 
sitting is pushed a little wider open, and a 
Policeman's helmet is seen, though not by 

She {rising) : How dare you speak to me 
in that way — how dare you ? 


He {aside) : Now, there's a picture ! What 
a splendid pose ! I am proud of you, Peggy. 
{To Her) : Now, don't 'take a man up like 
that when there's been such a pleasant under- 
standing between us, mum. I thought you 
was one of them ladies as isn't so over par- 
ticular so as they gets at the fac's about 
things. You asked for information, you 
know, and you promised not to peach. Pals 

don't give each other away in our perfession ; 
leastways, not if they're the right sort. 

She {indignant) : Pals ! This is insuffer- 
able ! I am ashamed of having allowed you 
to go on so long. But now — go at once, 


He : Presently, mum, presently. {Aside) : 
I must carry off a trophy. (To Her) : Excuse 
me a-reminding you, but business is business, 
and you promised me a sovereign, you know. 
She {hurriedly catches up a purse, takes a 
sovereign from it, and throws it towards Him) : 

He {picks it up, tries it with his teeth, spins 
it in the air, catches it, and 
puts it into his pocket. To 
Her, with an ingratiating 
smile) : If I might ask now — 
if you could give me a drink 
of fizz before I go ? You see, 
it's such awful thirsty weather, 

She {laying her hand upon 
the bell) : Go, or I can keep 
my promise no longer, and 
must summon assistance. 
{Aside) : What in the world 
shall I do if he will not go ? 
If the servants are gone to 
bed, they might not hear the 

The Policeman softly enters 
by the open window, and takes 
him by the collar of his coat. 
Beresford looks round, and 
meets the stolid gaze of the 

Beresford (struggling to 
free himself from the man's 
grasp) : Out of the way, 
fellow. What does this mean ? 
Policeman : It means 
you're wanted. 

Beresford : Wanted ? 
What for ? 

Policeman : You've been 
telling us what for. 

Manservant James {enter- 
ing by the window) : Yes, I'm 
a witness. I heard him. No 
see him creeping across the 
lawn with his boots in his hands than I ran 
off for the police, ma'am, and we came 
through the garden and across the lawn. 
We got here soon enough to know what sort 
he is. 

Beresford {still struggling to get free. 
Aside) : What a fix to be in. What on earth 
shall I do ? 

sooner did I 



She : You must not take him — you shall 

Policeman : Don't you be afraid, ma'am. 
(To Beresford) : Better come quietly ; you 
won't gain anything by resisting — you must 
know that. There's two of us, and you can't 
escape. (Dragging his prisoner, who sturdily 
resists, step by step, tozvards the door.) 

Manservant (conceitedly) : No chance of 
escape, you raskil. You won't be able to 
intimidate ladies again for some time to come. 

She : I cannot let you take him ! Stop, 
constable — James, I will not allow it ! I gave 
my word that he should go free from here, 
and he must. Let him go — I insist. He 
has done nothing to break the law here. 

Policeman : Can't do it, ma'am. You're 
a kind-hearted lady ; but it would be as much 
as my place is worth — dare not lend my- 
self to such a thing. 

Beresford (to Policeman, in a low voice) : 
Five pounds — ten — twenty ! 

Policeman : Come along. (Pulling him 
by the collar.) 

Beresford : It was only a jest, man. 

Policeman : A pretty sort of a jest. 
Come along, I tell you. (A great struggle, 
Beresford striking out right and left ; his 
wife protesting ; James blustering, but keep- 
ing well out of range of his master's fists. 

Policeman more determined. Beresford, 
with a final effort, wrenches himself out of 
the untidy overcoat. Evening dress becomes 
apparent. Hat and wig get knocked off, and 
beard twisted round.) 

She : Jack ! 

James : Master ! 

Policeman : Mr. Beresford ! 

Beresford : Doing a little masquerading. 
Rehearsing a little play, that's all, constable. 
You know me ? (Slipping some money into the 
hands of the man, who understands now.) 

Policeman (grinning as he stands back) : 
Oh, yes, sir, I see. A bit of play-acting at 
home. All right, sir. 

James : But I haven't saved nobody from 
nothing. Where's my reward to come 
from ? 

Beresford (coming forward to his wife's 
side) : Will you forgive me, Peggy ? It was 
only an endeavour to_satisfy your craving for 
the realistic. 

She : And read me a lesson, Jack ? 

He : Oh, well, that's as it may be. The 
artistic temperament may require 

She : It won't require any more burglars, 
Jack. Of that I am quite sure. 

He : Then I shall be prouder of you than 
ever, Peggy. 


"rehearsing a little play, that's all, constable.